Nancy Murphy / Writer

After my mother died, I left my husband.  

He had always been a rock  

but I stumbled upon someone more  

like fire, and I needed to ignite,  

breathe into the blue edge of a flame,  

find myself in what remained.  

It’s Friday night, I slice into red peppers. 

My new man scorches them on the grill  

along with sweet corn, chicken in dried  

thyme, Spanish olive oil. Together  

ten years and I still call him new. 

This is just how I talk, tell myself I’m free,  

remind myself that I could be reduced to ashes  

again. Sometimes I’m afraid that only burning 

can purge this longing, for all that’s lost,  

for those careless nights and all that blazed.  

 Montana Mouthful, February 2022 

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As you climb the mountainside hugging

the unguarded road, you imagine the worst.

You push on because there is an empty beach

between two rocks calling from the other

side and you want to be alone. You want to feel

honeyed sun on the top of your head as you

watch waves tap out messages on the sand.

You want to break the code. As the car

accelerates, your hands search the stitching

along the wheel, you notice the soft spots,

recall all the miles this body has taken you.

The wine colored mountains your eyes

are following on the horizon recede as you miss

the last turn and start the somersault down.

Nearby sheep graze, one locks eyes with you,

silently asks if there is something you need,

you both know it is too late. You nod

back in gratitude to the animal and let go like

you have just arranged that last pillow before

sleep. In your mouth, a familiar bittersweet,

not unlike that last sip from your morning tea cup,

a mix of milk and leaves and debris at the bottom.

Sheila-Na-Gig, Volume 3.3, Spring 2019

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Irish rain chases us around January, climbs

into our bodies seeking warmth. 

Instead of romantic evenings,

we split packs of cough drops, turn

away in the dark; the space between us

thickens with my disappointment, gives me

reason to hold back.

We push forward on this road trip,

Connemara maroon hills bleed

into bright green fields, blue-black

north Atlantic waves. Wildflowers

find footing in forgotten soil.

There is resistance in this land,

survival, a refusal to surrender.

We stop in an ancient village, hold

hands, share a pot of tea. He pours

the milk in, then the tea. He makes mine

first every time. It’s unfair how he does that.

The silence between us softens,

almost like

forgiveness.

Glassworks, Fall 2019

Hear the author’s reading of “Anniversary,” recorded for Glassworks: Fall 2019.

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