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Post Road Magazine #32

EFT + February Morning

Jeffrey Harrison


Tiny flicker
in wet leaves,
infant flame
cool to my
monstrous fingers,
you look at me
with your
minute eye,
your mouth
a straight line,
neither smile
nor frown.

Little wriggler,
orange spy,
you seem to be
keeping a secret.
Even your name,
which means
nothing to you,
feels cryptic,
part of a word—
the way you slip
into the cleft
between rocks
when I let you go.

February Morning

Sunday morning, I hear the dog
whining upstairs—but the dog
hasn't been upstairs in years,

and a glance confirms he's
right here at my feet, dozing
under the kitchen table.

Which means my wife is crying.
I hold my breath a second,
listen. What could be wrong?

What sadness is it
she's held inside that now
comes out in tears?

"Are you okay?" I call up.
"Yes," she calls back down,
sounding perfectly cheerful—

she's wiping the condensation
from our bedroom windows
and will be right down.

I listen to the squeaking
of paper towel against wet glass,
now recognizable,

though it's too late
for me to wipe away
the residue of sadness.

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