What They Said in the Avon

Quik Mart

The wind kicks up a sea of dust.

The curtains are lifting in the small

rooms of the finished houses.

I did not sleep, she said. She pressed

her handkerchief to her mouth, shield

against the harm of it.

People are looking, she said.

We cannot go back to where

we can stand out of the broken

grass. Hardness of heart won’t mend

no more, she said. The fire in the backs

is still burning, he said. Ain’t

that the truth! Like diving,

she said, under a sandbar searching for air.

Go on there, she said. Sip your coffee.

I can’t set here no more waiting

on will and hope. He looked down

lonely in his wrist and hand.

Thank you, ma’am, he said.

I don’t have to go on.

No place to go. She pulled

at the handkerchief and the dark

ring under her eye. She said,

things don’t look good when

you hurry the light.

He kicked at the dirt on his boot.

Nodded. They sat bent

over the white formica.

It’s so hard to see, he said,

and weather what I am.

A bird with white underbelly walks

through the irregular grass.

She looked outside. Almost no sun

left. He said, yes,

there we are. She said, not now—

Not. No more. He said, if I could,

if I placed a hand on you—

Apple held to his mouth.

Published in The Winter Keeper (Chapiteau Press, 2000).