| Current Issue | Contents Page - This Issue | Editorial Staff | About This Journal | Submissions |
| Acceptance Criteria | Haibun Definitions | Articles | Archives | Search | Red Moon Press |

January 2013, vol 8, no 4

| Contents | Next |

Patricia N. Rogers


We used to sit on the back porch until late into the night, holding hands, and laughing at tales that have somehow become obsolete. Now I watch you sleep, curved into yourself like a fetus in the womb, on your side of the bed, and I want to reach over and shake you awake, and then force you tell me exactly when did discontent seep in and slowly wrap itself around us like an old torn blanket that should have been discarded a long time ago.

midnight whispers
wind caught
between the eaves