By Richard LeDue

Early Winters are the Worst

The pond where they swam away 
summer nights,
naked and laughing at the heat,
is now covered with ice,
like cold eyes drowning tears,
and the promise of spring
just another lie
they tell themselves, so they can forgive
how smiles betray glances out windows
or cursing sockless feet against the back of their legs
as their wordless caresses
scream love,
trying to convince the rest of the silent house
that two bodies can occupy
more than one room in the same bed
where the blankets have become a tug of war
with no winners.


Spilling your drink all over them
is better than guts falling out
in a horror movie you never really liked,
but sat through so you could be in the same room,
watching their eyes watch 
a completely made up murderer
slash through teenagers,
who equate love with skinny dipping,
as parts of yourself were killed
by the silence you were stabbed with
afterwards, until your fingers slipped up
(metaphorical blood loss the worse),
and their swearing brought you back from the dead
better than any B-movie magic.

Giving Them What They Want

A dirty sock
lost for a time
under a bed,
while its match stayed clean,
but languished alone,
until finally reunited 
because this poem
needed a happy ending.

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