when i heard you'd gotten married
someone inside me died 20 years ago
it seems the 18 year old is in the 38 years old
like a layer of gravel in the ground
or a ring in a tree that records the winter was mild
but the spring was plagued by hard frosts
offering protection from
dragons of thought
black knights of fear,
wizards of summoning
things bright and dangerous.
Focus of my night light:
mini spotlight on
a sheet too clean
for too long; X-rated stage
for G-rated plays.
The place marked "You Are Here"
on the map on the wall of my life;
just off shore from my water bottle.
Now We Have
I knew her when those eyes were fourteen
(and mine sixteen).
Our faces have been sculpted by the chisels of adolescence
and painted darker by the white sable brushes of marriage.
I knew her when those lips were red with cherry ice cream
I bought her when my date canceled one Saturday night.
Now we have blue veins in our wrists
shaped like lightning bolts.
I knew her when our hands were sticky with stolen sweets,
when our feet were bright, clicking on hardwood floors;
before our faces found their lines,
before we heard the slow thunder.
H.Edgar Hix lives with his wife, seven cats, one dog, and numerous collections in a little white house in south Minneapolis. He hopes his writing will live many places with many people. Recent poetry has appeared in Time of Singing, Mutuality, Pyrokinection, One Sentence Poems, and Right Hand Pointing.