Two Poems

December 22, 2018

Making Plans


Cocooned in sheets, she clings

to Caribbean dreams of topaz water

and white sand, calypso music

and fruity drinks with umbrellas.

Ever the pragmatist, I pull her

from spindrift with urgency of agenda.


All week she’s eyed the calendar’s

red circle like a dog unwilling

to step outside, front legs stiff,

claws dug into shag. If I never

go to the doctor, she reasons,

he can’t tell me anything’s wrong.


Knowing how hope fuels her engine,

I dangle promises of Virginia Beach,

a stroll along its boardwalk, languorous

stretch beneath a plump sun lolling

in endless sky. Push her out the door

with assurances that nothing will be amiss,

belief as certain as our weekend plans,

the ones we will completely forget

in a few short hours.



The Sweetest Lie


It didn’t come up at all today—

           her cancer,

                       the way its tentacles

snake through the weave of her life.

           I once worried its shadow

would swallow

                      every bright moment

           like shiny baubles stuffed in a sack,

but now and then

           sunlight burns through

                                   like today

                      when it didn’t come up at all.


We piled into my car, Dawn in front,

            her two Rottweilers in back,

                       tongues lolling out windows

                                    as we lazed along the Colonial Parkway.

            Trees stood shoulder-to-shoulder,

trunks shielding us

            from ugly thoughts,

                       boughs interlocked

like laced fingers of lovers.


It didn’t come up at all

          as we cruised through forest,

Dawn’s hand surfing the breeze

                      as she named each

          of our roadside companions:

                      Sycamore. Birch. Dogwood. Pine.

Neither of us mentioned

          the purple threads of wisteria

                      limning the green

or the analogy they hearkened.


Instead, we parked at Dog Beach,

           where the Rotties

                       raced along the surf,

           retreating from waves like lava

                       then chasing seagulls into air.

We skipped rocks,

           gathered fan-shaped seashells,

                       spread a blanket for a picnic.


                       At one point

I held my breath

           when a cloud rolled across her face.

                      As Dawn’s smile cracked,

I feared what its broken pieces

            might convey.

                                   But she dropped her gaze

                        to a conical cerith,

scraped its sand-crusted contours

            with her thumbnail,


and it didn’t come up at all.



Bill Glose is a former paratrooper and combat platoon leader. The author of four poetry collections, Glose was named the Daily Press Poet Laureate in 2011 and featured by NPR on The Writer’s Almanac in 2017. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including The Missouri Review, Rattle, Narrative Magazine, and Poet Lore. His current work reflects upon a time filled with dread, the panic-filled year after his girlfriend was diagnosed with lung cancer.

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