Bedside

Her bones shrink

below a skin

now the shade of yellow--

like the certain dawns

of her youth.

Her heartbeat slows

to one spasm,

one spasm,

one spasm,

as her eyes begin the march

closed,

open,

closed

into a certain dusk.

And there, you're sitting,

the TV drawing,

drawing you away,

the hum of silver machines,

the squeak,

squeak,

squeak,

of plump nurses

with bedpan shields,

the ones who only smile

briefly,

because they know

you know

a lesson

of the clock

is just a measure

or two away.

Honeymoon, Peaks Of Otter, Fall, 1966

She paws at the slippery moss,

the point of her cherry tongue

cutting the sliver of a smile;

the mountain water entices

the tightening of her green blouse;

her eyes squeeze at the treat of sun,

slits of white gold sipping

at the blushing leaves.

Tender fingers grow cautious

about the crawling roots

we stole from the shores of Heaven.

She sneaks a smooth rock

from the glittering bed

and whispers that we are rough;

but with age, our soft stir of words

will tender the world in time.

This Melody

A tiny child twirls a silver baton,

flares of sun sparking

higher above the forever street.

Basses rattle extra beats

into our hearts.  Small boys

arching backs

like overdue mothers,

straining to catch

the paradiddles of echoes.

Scores stand in the glare

of third-story windows,

clapping to the cacophony.

Strawberry girls

in knee-high stockings

shake gold pom-poms

as the football team

leads Santa into view.

Half-a-world away,

our son rolls off

a measure of rimshots

into the black heat

of a quarter-moon night.

Whispers Just Below

When a vein breaks,

there is no pain,

just the warm brush of life

slippery down the calf.

A pinhole spout spray of me

dotting about the dusty linoleum

like micro-kisses all pink

and wet and calm.

When a vein breaks,

we talk more in the hurried seconds

than a tally of the months before.

But if I opt for surgery

will you think less of me,

for ruining your Sunday dress,

for ruining the eye contact

of frantic mornings chasing

the blood back home?

When a vein breaks,

will you stay by me,

hand in hand

with whispers just below

the shock of scared nurses

on a Christmas eve?

My smile against your palm

bringing a rose to your neck

like the days and days

of the years ago?

Jason Huskey holds a B.A. in English Literature.  His work has appeared in over two dozen journals, including Keyhole Magazine, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, and Zygote In My Coffee, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Links to his work can be found at http://jasonhuskey.blogspot.com.  He lives in Virginia.