Beneath where your hair
falls when wet
and just above where my arms rest
during morning shower hugs
is a birthmark in the shape of a
magic lamp
that used to make you laugh but
has made me thankful each day
for our too-brief
one thousand and one nights
and beyond my arm is a fist
that had been used in anger in the
weeks and months after that day
but now stays peacefully clenched
looking like a tightened question mark
and because the impact that stole you
struck me with such physical force
and mental velocity that my fingers
went and have since stayed numb
so on cold days and there are many
I use the mittens that you carefully
crocheted pink while pregnant
as handcuffs rather than boxing gloves
I am now without our
tangled sheet mornings
and I must strain to see
your faint freckled smile
while each day changing diapers
or turning skate keys
my head echoes with
silent flashbacks of a
drive-in first date
or truth-or-dare lies
and spin the bottles kisses
and each day alone in the shower
I burn my skin to collapse the years
so that I can once again hold you
close enough to rub the lamp
and make three wishes
for another tomorrow
—
copyright 2013 Steven Harz
—
please check out my new ebook of fiction and poetry titled “Gas Station Road Map”
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