Current Issue: Spring/Summer 2011

In My Wife’s House 
Johnathon Williams

Oranges. Coriander. And a yellowed, crepuscular lithograph —
her savior hanging on the wall. Baby’s breath. Lilies
in a black vase. Bird seed. We eat breakfast
where the light falls, without the children, this once.
Her kitchen. Her table. Her counter
lined with quartz, with colored glass, with decanters
of cooking oil never meant to be used. A radio.
A stopped clock. An embroidered platitude.

It’s the quiet that kills — over coffee
in the living room. The couch Moroccan brown.
The walls a seedling green. The trim
in pearl. A day alone, and alone
we are — desperate to remember the therapist’s advice.
We sip. We stare. A darkened television.
A drawn curtain’s knotted sash. Two people
sitting stiff as dolls in a model home.

And later, because it’s recommended, bed.
Throw pillows. An open balcony door.
Silk ribbons on a new negligee. We lay parallel.
The ceiling fan casts its kaleidoscope of shadows —
ceaseless, turning. Once, our dresser belonged
to her grandfather. In it we found a pistol —
a birthday present for his bride. No matter.
I wait for ashes. The smallest movement. Her hand.

 

Johnathon Williams co-edits Linebreak with Ash Bowen. His work has appeared in Best New Poets 2009, Crab Orchard Review and Unsplendid, among other publications. He works as a web developer from his home in Fayetteville, AR.