Joshua Gage: Ash

Spring '08 TOC

To tear down a border, a man refuses to eat for sixty five days.

 

The deer return, nibbling the apple trees in the back yard.

 

My wife hears, for the first time, the shrill of water in a kettle.

 

I want to hide a secret in the wall before we leave.

 

My grandfather would steal slivers of ice to suck in summer.

 

Pottery we made at the riverbed smells of stale water, cracks in the sun.

 

She talks to me. I stare at her lips, her lipstick the color or ripe mangoes. She is allergic to beer.

 

I cannot remember him now, only that, alive, he could not remember me.

 

A chipmunk is caught in the furnace. The scrape of its desperate claws echoes through the whole
     house. It stops when it dies in the heat.

 

A woman on the double yellow line doesn't cross, just watches the river of headlights.

 

In spring, the dandelions shove their way between the bricks in the porch.

 

Last summer, foxes left a dead duck in the back yard. Now there are houses, without blood or
     feathers.

 

The drone of Ave Maria dissolves a black hangover.

 

Two nights after her hands around a coffee mug, I knew she would wear my great-grandmother's
     diamond.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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