Following the doctor’s orders, we moved
farther from Los Angeles—escaped
the dingy smoke over the harbor, the yellow
callouses of smog, the black waste
on the gray horizon like bombs that plumed
and stained the windows, darkening the houses
fifty miles away—but hadn’t moved
far enough. The trees panicked, put out
their arms against the window, assaulted darkness
while the illness climbed the sill. Death
to me was a story I had always wanted
to hear, a question to answer. I asked again.
No, she whispered. No. She cradled me,
And rocked us both; her heart beat in my ear.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 2.
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