By Lottie Roddis
and it could end on the day it
sinks with thunder. wheat an ashen shade of
green, your hands callused and
raw on the plough, gripping my forearm
as the water slinks down.
warm with damp, the sheets don’t
dry on the rafters; instead, you bottle plums, i swallow my
syntax, the books fall apart on
our shelf. we are on opposite sides of the dining table:
there is something unspoken in the steam from my tea.
you call the doctor, i tell you
he can’t fix this. there is ash and there is
swelling, the last time we talked about it, i said i loved you,
but you just say it started with the vodka, you’re starving with
a scream.
there might be a funeral,
you could walk the course of the
graveyard, debate your striding, all
smoke and mirrors of a run-on
sentence, a machine;
you could open the gates: let the dogs churn
the ground like butter, like a fight. you
could pick up the phone,
flick the match, light up
something you’re trying to quit. it is the
day of endings, the reckonings,
the day of myths and magic, the day
of making amends and making a bed to lie in,
to wake up in. to bring coffee
and a newspaper to.
one second-best call and a hailstorm,
is all it could take,
to make it to the end of harvest season.
Featured Image : Toby Dossett