moonlight sparkles in
grey hair and
bourbon ice
beneath pine trees she
severe counts satellites
on silent skyways
falling stars
fading shine
the sky’s last synaptic glow
strange and waning
the highway fell
silent last summer
no cars since then
her mind wanders
revisiting the cellar
each jug of potable water
she calculates
consumption, her husband’s
weight beside her
bourbon ice (luxury
for special nights like these)
grey hair
moon-sparkling knife
the broken highway
heat lightning
bones in moonlight
—
Another poem about water, or rather, the lack thereof.
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
Beautiful dreamlike quality to this one, especially with the repetition mixed in. But as lush as it is, you can feel that empty dryness worked in…
Thanks, Joseph.
Yes, that contrast is beautifully managed. There’s a haunting bleakness that counterpoints the bright imagery.
Thank you, Dick.