Warm air from the copper roof seeps
into the living room, where pink urn plants
droop over a radiator cover. You hum
in the kitchen as I gather brittle petals
that bite at my fingers like needles—
as disquieting as our small talk
at day’s end.
I pour a bourbon neat,
hoping to unknot the kinks in my day.
My eyes follow as you unravel, in detail,
today’s HVAC repairs
and a burned-out porch light.
With my thumb, I brush
licorice mint tea from your lip.
I pick through thoughts,
running a numbers game
against the weight of time.
Four years—and counting.
Is there still time to reach around
the mechanics of this house?
We talk our way into the kitchen,
where unread mail is stacked on the fridge.
Phones buzz with messages,
alerts we ignore.
I delete the text
from group therapy,
lean in the doorway—
watch you light the old Chambers stove
with a stick match
and a whoosh.
You like the way it cooks.
The old farmhouse hunches around us,
a digital clock chewing seconds—
some I don’t wish back. Others I do.
I worry—
are you happy?
I don’t ask, I never do.
You tidy the counter,
fold open the newspaper
to the entertainment section.
“A weekend movie, maybe?”
I comment on your fondness for newsprint.
“Something I can feel,” you say.
The back door is cracked for the breeze.
Drink in hand, I step outside
where June days stretch long,
and the mowed grass smells earthy.
Soon you’ll join me there
and we’ll sip the last of this day—
unspoken words soaked warm
by bourbon and tea.
Laura DeHart Young is a poet and novelist whose work explores memory, resilience, and the emotional terrain of relationships. Her poems have appeared in The Eunoia Review, Last Leaves Magazine, The Ravens Perch, Trashlight, Bluebird Word, and other journals. She is the author of seven novels published by Bella Books.
