| Salli Shepherd |
Christmas, Presentread by salli shepherd The son we never had is driving home for Christmas. Twenty-five, or was it twenty years ago - I couldn't say - but we didn't meet beneath an oak, and your lips were not an inch from mine when you asked, heard: yes, oh yes, I will. Never - but not the way your wives or my girl's daddy were never. Histories are told by winners, and we will win this time, lie together on a bed we have yet to unmake, in the house we'll build someday, listen to the shush of leaves from unplanted trees, and love each other now. Something Like Opheliaread by salli shepherd Flower-drops fall through scintilly foam, and I light a candle before the bath's wide mouth gulps me in. Your name bursts from my lips, bubbles up until stars fall down in streams. When only water remains, I have become a silvered creature slipping through shadowed ripples, willow-roots, uncomplicated as drawing liquid through gills or the instinct to break the surface, gasping. |