This morning you tuned up the Norton,
blackening your fists from fingernail
to wrist in just-changed oil. This afternoon,
stepping lily-scented from your shower,
underarms patted with baby powder,
you drop on my four-post bed, forgetting
in exhausted dreams, how much you want
to be back; how you can hardly wait,
free again after winter, to drive up
the smoking Hudson and disappear
in the Pocono Hills. But I see death’s
shadow riding beside you. I see how
it creeps, when you bend your knee to
the road, like a mortal stain up your side.

Lisa Low

Lisa Low’s essays, book reviews, and interviews have appeared in The Massachusetts ReviewThe Boston ReviewThe Tupelo Quarterly, and The Adroit Journal. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of literary journals, among them Valparaiso Poetry ReviewPennsylvania EnglishFree State ReviewPhoebeAmerican Journal of Poetry, and Southern Indiana Review.