ISSUE: Fall 2019
The lithograph hangs
immaculate, while the chest
beneath it gleams.
The Moroccan sword
and beaded sheath lie separate
in glass cases.
I won’t think of the bed,
where it’s gone, where all
thought expired.
Rainbow congealed
on the palette, elegant brushes
go unstroked.
In the courtyard, a man
reads so slowly to his son he
is reading to me, also.