by BENJAMIN KIRBY

Your hand was arrayed against the starch white sheet
brittle thin, like old paper
delicate and true

And the thump of a machine I could not explain
against the draw of your rushing breath, like the wind at sea
and now cutting through the water to some strange destination,
a place you would never tell me, never tell us

Not exotic, maybe a beach, under a wide umbrella, faded cornflower and white
with the kids in the blinding sun, next to you, soaked from the unforgiving surf, building castles and moats to stave their exhaustion
while we bicker about who might carry the cooler back to the room

Not a city

Never the city
with the noise of traffic and people, the sirens, the tires on flooded streets and music on the corners and people talking under awnings
not a city, where a bus might run, or children play in a green park
you hated the city

More likely a pine trail in the fall, with water
a crystal lake nearby
the kids could fish, we can skip rocks
and a fire pit where we would sit and gaze at the flames jumping to their extinguished death into the dark of night
a night sky filled with starlight and quiet

and only the crunch of yellowed grass under our feet, and autumn leaves, brittle thin, like old paper

Ω

Benjamin J. Kirby is a writer and father of three living in St. Petersburg, Florida. His poetry can be found in more than a dozen literary magazines and journals. For eight years, he produced the award-winning political blog The Spencerian. Short stories, poetry, and more can be found at BenjaminJKirby.com.

Roman Kosh is a street photographer based in South Asia. See more at flickr.com/photos/romankosh/