By Holly Day
If I had known this morning that we would
be over and done by tonight I
never would have gotten out of bed,
I would have stayed asleep, alive
beneath the covers, kept my arm dead
around your chest, lips on your back, eyes
closed. I would have found a way to keep
the sun from rising, the bright daylight
a shadow, and you from leaving.
Two Animals Slip into the Woods
By Zach Lindsey
You were clad in pollen from Queen Anne’s Lace,
and nothing more but the smile upon your face.
He ducked down when you saw him staring;
your cheeks were hot to the touch, hotter to the taste.
Though this new boy knows nothing of your past,
he is far more interested in your potential,
and perhaps Mr. Fox will be forced to notice at last
that before his wife, other men are reverential.
Even though you knew there was housework to do,
you crept down to the river to read “Henry and June,”
and when he ran his tongue along your collarbone,
you cannot pretend you did not howl at the moon.
Mr. Fox never could be a warm animal,
and he left you cold when you needed sympathy,
and you were alone staring out at the trees
every time you longed for a little company.
Do not allow yourself to be sentimental
when you think about those old gray rocks,
or how Mr. Fox would predict the weather
by listening to the way the wind talks.
Do not be ashamed to put your clothing
and all your possessions in a cardboard box,
and it would not be a sin if, by darkness,
you left in the mud the title of Mrs. Fox.