By John Best
Maybe that’s why when your car scraped into the rutted driveway and you emerged like a pharaoh seeking your resurrection with gold-leafed ferocity in your eyes, I was not your Isis. Maybe that’s why when your greedy fingers slid through the valleys between each rib counting coup, my soul flew like a crow. Maybe that’s why when the river of your steaming blood roiled itself into a heaving wave, its falsity could not melt me. Maybe that’s why when you rose to my doorstep on that winter night, your thin jacket shining with wear, an empty bottle, not here, but somewhere, maybe that’s why, maybe that’s why I just shut my door.
John Best is a retired professor of cognitive science. He and his piano live in a small town in a rural county in Illinois. His poetry has appeared in Poetica Review, The Literary Yard and Bindweed Magazine. He can be found on Twitter @johnbest68.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 