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The name of this technique,
he said,
is afternoon.
Then pressed his mouth
to her collarbone,
pressed his mouth
’til evening
broke the window.
Copyright © 2014 by Nicole Callihan. “Lesson Three” was published in SuperLoop (Sock Monkey Press, 2014). Used with permission of the author.
For hours, the flowers were enough.
Before the flowers, Adam had been enough.
Before Adam, just being a rib was enough.
Just being inside Adam’s body, near his heart, enough.
Enough to be so near his heart, enough
to feel that sweet steady rhythm, enough
to be a part of something bigger was enough.
And before the rib, being clay was enough.
And before clay, just being earth was enough.
And before earth, being nothing was enough.
But then enough was no longer enough.
The flowers bowed their heads, as if to say, enough,
that winter it was so cold
I had nowhere to go but inside
my heart was a clock on the kitchen wall
and I tacked up curtains to keep
anyone from looking in on my liver
up river snow kept coming
and the aching thing ached still
husband it was yours for the taking
I clanged pots against my radiator thighs
duct-taped my mouth all the doors
if only we could lose the hour
if only we could witness a single bloom
listen if spring ever comes
I will open these windows to you
My mother says the sound haunted her.
She thought an animal had crawled under her bed
and that it was hurt. Every night for a week,
the whimpering woke her. Mornings, she reached the long hand
of the broom underneath the dust ruffle but it came out clean.
The pillow where her head had rested was wet. So wet, she said.
As if I’d been crying all night long. But then it stopped.
The animal, wherever it was, had nursed itself well. Or died.
It would be years before we found anything resembling a body.