Summer 2011

Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 2

Poetry    Fiction    Translations     Reviews

Maurine Killough

His Gloves

raw from the tears
and dazed by the pure shock of it
i shuffled through his house
in the wake of his Final self-destruction
touching stuff he last touched
where the shot rang out
still ringing my ears
my tear-striped cheeks
bearing my underseams
not much left of me without him
like seeing underwater
i was swimming surreal
everything still in its place
despite the implode
and here's where he did it
in the shower, not much blood
just a tip of a bullet hole in the tile
neat and tidy
and the things he last touched
still in their places
except him
and i touch these things and wander around like i'm a ghost without him
shuffling like a zombie to his work table
where i see his hands
just as he left them
the curve of his fingers, one hand and then the other
my sweet brother's hands
cast right there in lifeless form
crack in the throat of my heart
as i stand there
his hollow hands



© Maurine Killough

Poetry    Fiction    Translations     Reviews

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