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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4627 Registered: 11-1998 |
Poem of the Week Fallout David Durham My wife sweeps her palm across the pillow and harvests a handful of hair. Her fingers fold about shed strands. I observe this and think somewhere in eastern Colorado a farmer contemplates the future of his crops and a lifetime left of farming. My wife sorts her medication into a container of plastic cubicles, one box for each day of the week. She then removes the day’s collection, places them in her mouth and swallows them with a long sip of water. She doesn’t have to urge the pills down her throat. Through the screen that covers the open window, I watch a cloudburst descend and fat drops of water pour down. Weather is a continuous worry that pulls furrows across her brow, a distraction from the variability of her blood’s viscosity. Water pools about the mouth of the gutter’s drain that is stopped with fallen debris. My wife’s hands caress my cheek as if to find a harvest there. But today my face is a stubble field; not much left to be reaped. Her hands come to rest on my shoulders. I shiver a slight rumble that rolls down my back. I collect her sigh and hold it in my hand. We listen to the sound of each other’s breathing. It pushes through a membrane of silence. |
