Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #15 : July-December 2011

Frederick R. Cumagun



from In Her Room


      Alone


      Once when everyone was out
      I sorted through the ashtray of
      red-lipped cigarette butts—
      found one not quite used up
      and lit it.

      Would I know my mother
      a little better? Every night
      she stares out into the yard
      spewing her thoughts
      into tangles of smoke.



      Or when my sister forgot to lock her door
      and I crept in, and onto her bed.
      I liked how I seemed to sink into it,
      slowly—like on a cloud.
      The scent of her hair
      on the pillows. The sheets so
      much smoother than mine.

      Why does it feel so much better
      without anyone knowing? Clothes
      lie awkward on the floor where
      she stood naked this morning
      drying her hair. The drops
      are still faintly visible.

       

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