At Lake Charleston
Light gleams
veins
across my neck
a sun tree
climbing
an upturned chin
veiling
a tan face
with worn gauze
thinning
over a lake
like currents
behind
a heron’s dive.
Beside
a verdant shore
a sunfish
struggles
to swim
away.
The Gift
He arrived just days before Christmas, stopping by in his
new car to pick up the last of his possessions. The Christmas tree was up and
decorated, perhaps because I forgot our divorce was final just days before. Or
maybe I meant to brighten up the sterile sunken living room, the stained white
carpet reminding me of the coffee he’d thrown in my face and the cats he
euthanized without telling me.
“I’m the only one who knows what you want,” he said, as he
placed a wrapped box under the tree.
He’d chosen a Santa Claus theme and left off the ribbon, but
the paper was neatly folded around the square, and the multiple taped corners
made it difficult to open. I opened the gift.
Inside the wrapper was a plain cardboard box. And I hoped at
this point it was whiskey. Some friends and I raided the liquor cabinet after
he left, emptying the expensive bottles the weekend after my court date. He
wasn’t there.
Inside the box, though, I found a cheap reproduction of a
Japanese tea set, clearly bought on the fly at World Market or Pier One.
“Thank you,” I sighed.
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