T. L. Stokes The 2River View, 8.4 (Summer 2004)

The man I loved for four years is trying to forget me
enough to live in the sun. He speaks of the hawks and
the owls. It is the first time he hasn't flown to
save us. I hear him in the next room, where the sun
lives, carving off pieces of himself. I bend to pick
up one of the shavings. It is a woman's finger,
dry like an apple peeling, and the rings slip off.
They drop and never make a sound.

CoverPrevious Poem AuthorsPoemsPDF