Frayed wires that vein behind veneer spit red,
and all the things that I abandoned burned.
The table where we screamed and buttered bread
and pounded fists is charred. Its tan legs turned
coal black, collapsed. Exploded glass shards blazed,
enameled saucers cracked, the nagging plea
the clock once ticked was smothered. Fire erased
the proof that you and I were ever we,
destroyed posed photos taken by the sea;
hot water roiled over you and me.
Jean Free is pursuing her
Masters degree at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, where she lives with
her husband and daughter. Her poetry has appeared in Snow Monkey, The Little
Patuxent Review, and is forthcoming in The Raintown Review.