Public Republic

Brian Russell

Photo: jesse.millan

Maybe it’s just as well,
she says,
though I don’t really believe her.

The birch are all gone now,
I say,
missing their papery white.

She takes my hand to
lead me away.

Maybe it’s just as well
I hear myself say,
believing it less than her.

Let’s go in honey,
she says,
it’s getting cold.

Let’s sit here by the fire,
she says.

I stare at the
light flickering and
don’t feel the coldness of
the floor beneath.

Probably just as well,
she says,
hoping I’ll agree.

I don’t.

She kisses me on
the mouth and
my eyes close.