On his early morning walk, he passed a house
he’d never noticed before, though he’d taken the same route
every day for years: All the lights were blazing;
the house shone brightly in the dark that was starting
to grain into daylight. Then, as he turned away,
he thought he saw a naked body leap across the living room
picture window, just once, with a grace that stunned him
with its beauty, even glimpsed. So he waited, watching,
as the day grew light around his body.
A hurricane was passing hundreds of miles
off shore, too far away to bring substantial wind or rain
but strong enough to push huge waves across the normally
placid beaches, to swell the tidal rivers,
to blow unusual birds into the trees
and across the morning sky. He would live alone,
no matter whom he lived with, he’d always understood that.
Take pleasure in your breath, the trees seemed to whisper
as he stood there sensing something he would never know,
something he was already losing.
Michael Hettich | Mudlark No. 40 (2010)
Contents | Like Hunger