Man:
I
fled. On a flat tire, I fled.
Woman:
Early
summer,
I
couldn't hear the herons
only
the ball game on the radio,
when
he unsnapped my jeans
by
the orange sand.
And
now,
he
wanders Virginia
with
the letters tucked in his pockets,
the
same blue eyes,
his
beard grown red.
And
this child, this
thorn
in in my side,
thinks
a stork left him by the waters,
I
will break before I bend.
___
Blake Lynch is a young lawyer whose poems have appeared in The Foundling Review, The Brooklyner, Chelsea, King Log, 2River, The Stray Branch, The Oakbend Review, Stone Highway Review, The Potomac, Zygote in My Coffee, Forge, 491 Magazine, Pif Magazine, and Shampoo, among others; and whose plays have been performed at Tisch School of the Arts in New York City and The Institute of Contemporary Arts in London, England.
