Gerry Stewart
Cottonwoods
He told her that as a child
he woke and believed the cotton
was snow beneath the thin trees.
She imagined him gathering the fluff
in handfuls. She wanted to spin
it into soft yarn or thread. Wear it
against her as she walked
through fields towards him.
He catches the cotton
between his calloused fingers,
rolls it. The white shrinks,
hard and gray. The rain
and the cotton fall.
She gets off the porch,
walks inside. Leaves the lights off.
Around her stand the shadows
of boxes and suitcases
held together with tape.
She wants it to rain
when she leaves. It is easier
to disappear in rain.
And for the full moon
to stroke his cheek at night
after she is gone.
Page(s) 23
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