← v14n1, Spring 2015
Poetry · Volume 14, Number 1

Jean Valentine Was Here

A man told his son

they would stand

shoulder to shoulder

and not be faced.

Sparrows ink both

the boy’s wrists.

Ice forms and falls

on the inside

of this small window.

Some assume the world

will not touch them.

Not one finger.

Whenever you leave

will be too soon.