You didn't call this time, or the last.
You didn't make up a crazy lie
that had to top the lie before it.
You just came home, crawled
into bed and passed out.
I sat there looking at you laying next to me.
Your hair damp, skin white. Your clothes
drenched in sticky, musty sweat. My fingers
slide along the tracks in your arms as if
connecting the dots
or trying to figure out the constellations—
I wonder how long the sky will sleep tonight
before his insides turn sharp and unforgiving.
Maggie Shurtleff lives quietly with her three young sons. OK-- you know she's a liar
so- read what you want into her pieces. Some are true to life. Some are well you
know- not. Maggie has been published quite a bit. If you really want to know- you
can google her. She'd probably be famous by now if she did something outrageous-
like sing peace songs and change her name to something anti-american. Then again-
she likes being unknown and left alone- something about not being seen but seeing
everyone else is safe. B.S.! Maggie seeks danger every chance she gets- don't listen
to the schmuck who's writing this bio.
© 2005 Underground Voices