Issue Three:

Rosemary Appleton

Each evening, if you are out, I think:

I have your keys. I am ready

to walk out of here and over the road

down the brick path

to stand in your porchlight and

turn your key.

I could switch that lamp on,

trail my fingers over the dustless photos,

along the quilt that rests on your sofa’s arm.

My feet easing into the carpet’s warm pile

I would stand, as you do when

the streetlamp sheds its light on the pavement,

ready to draw the curtains,

looking back at my own dark house.

no true question can be answered - although

you want a word to be thrown to you like

the cord of a white rope, one end held in your hand,

one in hers, her answering weight

your counterbalance - you can’t fall -

what you get is this -

your voice shrieks and rails and when you falter

smoke surrounds you, a baffling fume -

you strive to hear which sounds will be shaped,

propelled on her breath, loosed to soar

and spin in the air like dandelion seeds,

drifting out of your reach.