Her hair color was inconsequential 
except that it was his cast.
She lived, always looking up, 
waiting for his love to spew out a frothy clue.

There was no foolishness. 
He pulled the lever to release foam, 
turning or dipping to make a word. 
To her it was gospel. The book of him.

The stories he told, she inhaled as air.
He took all the lessons about pain, loss, 
great art: spelled them out carefully for her 
against the edge of the world.

From Rogue Apostle by Mary Jane Nealon, published by Four Way Books. Copyright © 2001 by Mary Jane Nealon. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.