A Poem by David Wright

Again, the blended greens of morning fields
and, behind them, a lemon rind of sun inserted
between horizon and cloud. He believes he’s lost—
an abstraction in all this sudden color.

He left the house and its solid worries, peeled
paint, basement brick seeping and bulging,
his pale spouse, wearing nothing, rolling towards
him unconsciously as he rose. She knows

he’s an aesthete, pissed at the tactile
world. But he knows last night as they sat
silent, ignoring the sunset for glazed pork chops
and wild rice, hearing only the sound of their teeth
against the flesh, she smiled. Then blood

appeared, and he knew its requirements:
his instinct to squeeze her sliced finger,
to wrap her hand in his blue napkin. These
could be his triumphs, his gifts, if she will

say so. If he will say nothing. He drives,
now and imagines her hand, how the cut
may heal, a miniscule jagged ridge
that will form and stay on her thumb,

how in the night he alone will know
where to find it, how it will feel
beneath his fingers, familiar wound,
the road and the way it is known.

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David Wright teaches creative writing and American literature at Monmouth College (IL). His poems have appeared in Ecotone, Image, Rock & Sling and Quiddity, among others. His most recent poetry collection is The Small Books of Bach. He can be found on Twitter @sweatervestboy.