k i m b e r l y r u t h |
Living Room |
|
The mother stared out the window, washing clean dishes. The sink went with the sun, glittering. They all knew the same thing. She heard his footsteps first, then his whispering voice. He said he wasn’t coming back, had to leave, follow something. She said the opposite, didn’t even turn around. That made them even. The car pulled away then, obscuring the shimmer off the blackened street. |
||
|
When it went missing, she knew where to look. It’s what I have to do, she whispered to herself. She heard unfamiliar voices and knew he was there, through the wall. As she turned the corner, she saw him sitting there, belly up. He was sleeping and the moonlight spiked off it. To his eyes. He woke. Hi Baby, he said, touching the back of her left thigh. She closed her eyes. Her mind was made up. |
||
KIMBERLY RUTH is an MFA candidate at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. She is the author of one poetry chapbook, Said The Oyster To The Fly (Pudding House Press). You can view samples of her work at kimberlyruth.blogspot.com. |
||
a l i c e b l u e t e n I S S N 1 5 5 9 - 6 5 6 7 |