c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


HALF LIGHT by Christian DeLaO

HALF LIGHT by Christian DeLaO

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.

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

HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT by Allyson Seconds

by Jen DeGregorio


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.


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.


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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