Poetry, Fiction, Essay, Art: Grown Out of Our Experience
I left a light in the upstairs window. A beacon
for the driver in case the hot blue heat
blowing through rusty vents, silencing the crunch of
wheels on snow covered roads, lulled you to sleep.
I’ve pulled the rocker to the side kitchen window.
My teacup now as dry as the bone it’s made of, the cigarette a long row of ash.
My fingers struggle to add thrums
to the mitten, as stitches grab the needle tighter the closer they get to the edge.
The plow has gone down twice. Have you run into
trouble? Are you stuck up the Shore? Hitchhiking now?
Like birthday candles moving slowly down
a darkened hall, hand held high to shield the flames,
the headlights shine round the turn. The bus halts
in the center of the road. Yellow line, gone.
My breath, long needing to be exhaled, steams
the glass, but still I watch as you struggle to lift your
blue flower-printed cardboard suitcase. Orange hat pulled tight over unwoven braids.
Stiff polio-leg weighing you down.
But you have arrived.
This Item Cannot Be Shipped to a PO Box by Carolyn Gerk
For me your painting has truly captured the softness and magic of a rural winter’s day. Delightful!