I don’t remember where we were,
but I knew it was your office.
Maybe a supply room.
And I’d found a puzzle
I wanted to take home.
It had rain in diagonals over
kids in rain coats, under
umbrellas and boots, in
a tree house, impossibly high
in a lush complexity.
I do remember when rain
would bead on the windshield at night and I’d
squint my eyes and tilt my head
To make the lights dance from
the back seat.
And I know quiet,
waking up on wet mornings
stirring silence into the pitiless sun.
My nose dripping,
but I can finally breathe.
“Steadfast at the Kitchen Table”
With hands like dead leaves he forgets.
Sitting with his back to floral wallpaper:
mouth open, shirt stained.
Against correspondence and
chalk memos and hanging keys.
His faces shift pools of wine and bile
A lifetime swimming in
Carcinogen paper push.
tame a disease he adopted in a work of faith.
His words come slowly if at all
We’re never sure if he’ll be able to stand up and
he forgets his shirttails are
sticking out of his open fly
How much is undiagnosed
Or is it just that we won’t say
There is simply no reason to live this long
Christopher Edelen was born in Boston, MA. He writes fiction and poetry, and writes for the web series “Pretty Dudes”. Christopher currently lives in Los Angeles with his dog. Most recently his work has been featured in the “Twisted” Anthology from Medusa’s Laugh Press, Harper Palate, and is forthcoming in The Helix Magazine. Follow him on twitter at @EdelenAuthor.