HALF LIGHT by Christian DeLaO |
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SPLIT
by Cristine A. Gruber The headboard has a crack in it, five inches from the top, nine inches across. I've no idea how it happened, nor any clue how long it's been there. When the movers arrive to pack up the house, one of them notices the fissure in the marital bed, asking how long it's been damaged in that way. Presumptuous, I'd say, though I'm sure he means no harm. I shrug and say I've no idea when the split first occurred, but it's clearly grown to unbearable dimensions. I pack the rest of my things, then call the Salvation Army to pick up the bed. |
HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT by Allyson Seconds |
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THE REFRIGERATOR
by Jen DeGregorio I I waited in this apartment with my internal light long dark. You opened me to see if it was worth it, the rent, how well this place had been kept. And finding me empty — wiped chemical clean of all history — the corners dust free I watched the landlord sweep last week, the counters reflective (yes, I saw you stop for a second to inspect your face), and all else I guess okay I'll never see — whatever lived, lives still beyond the doors on either side of me I can't enter — you decided to stay. II The next week you plugged me in, stomped to and fro, arms filled with boxes. On the radio — like me part of the deal and screwed to the cabinet — the DJ played an hour of Led Zeppelin. I hummed along growing cool. III Has it been a year? Not that it matters on a day like today, when I can feel the peaches, lemons, roll inside my drawers, my shelves holding milk and pink flesh wrapped in plastic. I feel sorry, too, for whatever died but try to keep it fresh for you. I'm happy you're here after you stayed away for days I wonder where, leaving me with little more than a baggie of wilting basil inside, the ancient baking-soda box and beyond the radio quiet. |
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