Resplendent tonight, the moon spreads silver. Moonlight drops from the trees like silver leaves on the far side of the lake. It ripples across the lake like floating silver petals. It washes up on the glittering banks, and some of it angles across our evening picnic table in long tappping fingers. Our white wine glistens golden, our stemmed glasses reflect. My love reaches out to me and her hand slides under silver. The silver climbs her arm as she reaches toward me. She becomes a silver lover. Oh, she begins to tarnish! I reach over to her, out of my shadow, and dab her forehead with soft white linen. The napkin comes away with a dark, glistering smear. She darkens and hardens. She becomes a statue. I reach out and touch a cold shoulder. Aghast, I lift her stiff form and carry her inside the cabin. Where is the silver polish? Thank heaven, I find some under the sink. Time and oxygen are destroying her. I must work fast or love will escape me. Mad for her riches, I polish her like a thief.


* * *

E.M. Shorb’s prose poems have appeared in The Carolina Quarterly, Quick Fiction, The Mississippi Review, Illuninations, The Chariton Review, GW Review, The Asheville Poetry Review, Slant, The Potomac Review, Gulf Coast, The New Laurel Review, The North American Review, and Gargoyle. E.M. Shorb’s newest collection, Manhattan Spleen, just published by Aldrich Press.


Tagged with →  
Share →

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>