Last time they met,
they sat over the dripping styrofoam
from a dinner bought on his campus—
glazed orange kernels of chicken
and his eyes
glazed through the heat:
he wanted to know
if she was doing OK.
She lifted the black plastic fork, ignoring
chopsticks and ignoring
the question. His chair legs scraped tile.
Light flickered in the kitchen.
He hadnít taken a bite,
only watched her as she ate.
His eyes were green as summer water
in the pond they had loved as children—
he would wait, soundless,
a drawn-out second
on the fringed bank between cattails,
and his sharp, twisted wrist
a Pacific Treefrog, its body copper and black,
small as a shared secret.
He twisted his cup to lips and sipped,
and she wondered
when the light straining from his eyes
to the tired,
refracted light of fall.
fiction poetry "fact" photography