Backyard Poem

Last night the backyard was exploding with moonlight.

Everything was a different shade of gray

and had a calm and/or stony visage.

The predatory floodlights of Molly’s house hadn’t quite noticed our presence.

I could feel the beer in my hand dilating with the sound of my breath.

In a swift yet complicated way, I pointed to something ineffectual out by the garage.

And when you happened to graze my forearm

I removed my pants and spun them vigorously around my wrist.

by Andrew James Weatherhead

Return to Issue 44