Gary Palmer © 2003
The Weight of Sundays
Feathers are everywhere. The neighbor's cat
curls beneath your lounge chair, licking his teeth.
We've been here before: the morning rising
against our necks, a basket of cherries between us,
a bowl of water for dipping stained fingers.
You say love until it hurts to see your mouth move.
The doe grazing in the field startles the tall grass
as she moves away from us, bored with voices.
Inside, sunlight yawns through our rooms. Inside:
the sun of children stirring and unmade beds,
newspapers losing their centers, unwinding
through our living room, idling for days.
A side street downtown has growers peddling berries and corn.
But closer by, the paperboy has curled himself back into his dreams
and the neighbor girl who jogs religiously in white sweats
is rinsing predawn dew from her skin.
Out here, our whitewashed fenceposts soften
in the sun, slouching under the weight of rot and rain,
the boards swelling into spongy layers: a failing
provoked by our neglect, proof
that passivity can lead to destruction.
Copyright © 2003
Theresa Boyar's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Florida Review, The Adirondack Review, Lynx Eye, The Paumanok Review, Rattle, and Wicked Alice.