Tonight there’s only this little green room
to tell you about. It’s bleak. If you were here
the lamplight across the bed would look like September,
that black hair of yours spread out. I hear
there’s a decent fish place down the road.
And good music a few blocks up. Couple of fellows
are headed out. But everything’s kind of dry
and one-note without you. I know I told you
I don’t need this hassle. But if I could cup
your face in my hands, put my mouth over yours,
I’d erase it all, breathe it back. Never happened.
See, without you it goes mostly like this:
wall, window, hour.
A finalist for the 2013 Perugia Press Prize and a three-time nominee for a Pushcart Prize in poetry, Wendy Miles has published multi-genre work in places such as Arts & Letters, Southern Poetry Review, Hunger Mountain, storySouth, The Chattahoochee Review, and Memoir Journal. Wendy teaches at Lynchburg College in Virginia.