2014-10-29

Voices |
by Blake Lynch

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. 

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