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ROBIN HALEVY

This, Unspoken


Sometimes in the evening,
you at your stove, me at mine,
I imagine that we are living together.

I see us through the window,
me chopping, you stirring,
inches apart instead of miles.
I see us through the doorway,
you washing, me drying,
the cupboards stacked neatly,
the knives all in a row.

Would we be miles apart, I wonder —
me, only inches from your crook’d elbow,
your soapy hand.
And, if so, would we be
Comforted by the nearness made easy by distance?

Sometimes in the afternoon, —
the fan in the corner eyeing the room,
I wake in the circle of your uncomplicated arms
and ask myself if I ought never lie down
unless you are beside me.

I see us through the curtains,
me sleeping, you dreaming,
you sunk into sleep, me riding my uneasy dreams.
I see us in the moon’s light,
first my turning, then your shifting,
the moon hung in that spot where the big tree used to be.

Would we be dreaming to risk it, I wonder —
me, a mere hairsbreadth from speaking,
from wondering out loud.
And if we were, would they be
the dreams that come while we are sleeping,
or those that come while we are widest awake?



Robin Halevy worked for twenty years as a public school librarian and student creative-writing mentor on Long Island, New York. She is now a resident of the Florida Keys. She spent many years believing that fiction was what she wanted to write before realizing the truth of the matter. Better late than never.



Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761