by Joshua Jones
I heard you call my name. The wire of your voice pulled tight through the hallway.
Expecting to find you marooned on the commode with no toilet paper or pads,
I found you stiff as a saint, hands on your knees, and facing the towel rack. You hardly
breathed. You said my name again as though I hadn’t appeared at all, hadn’t
rounded the corner and said your name back. A blank space in my memory.
Beneath it, my knees kneading the blue plush bath mat, my fingers dimpling your naked
thighs, your pupils gorged like cormorants brooding over each eye’s pale egg.
Joshua Jones received his MFA from UMass Boston and is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of North Texas. His poems and essays have appeared in Image, Southwest Review, and Salamander among other journals. He and his wife wrangle dachshunds in Frisco, TX.
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