Christmas, Present

read by salli shepherd


The son we never had
is driving home for Christmas.
Twenty-five, or was it
twenty years ago - I couldn't say -
but we didn't meet
beneath an oak, and your lips were not
an inch from mine when you asked,
heard: yes, oh yes, I will.
Never - but not the way
your wives or my girl's daddy
were never. Histories are told
by winners, and we will win
this time, lie together on a bed
we have yet to unmake,
in the house we'll build
someday, listen to the shush
of leaves from unplanted trees,
and love each other now.

 

Something Like Ophelia

read by salli shepherd


Flower-drops fall
through scintilly foam, and I light a candle
before the bath's wide mouth gulps me in. Your name
bursts from my lips, bubbles up until stars fall down
in streams. When only water remains,
I have become  
                                          a silvered creature slipping
                      through shadowed ripples, willow-roots,
               uncomplicated as drawing liquid through gills
or the instinct to break the surface, gasping.