by Kristin Tenor
The wind blows deep, guttural like the lonely coyote we heard down by Schutt’s Pond those late August nights we slipped away, careful not to overextend the porch’s screen door for fear the slap of it closing might wake the girls or the curled dog asleep on the faded welcome mat. Cool dew between toes, your hand clutched tight around mine as we jump into the waiting water, full moon, thick reeds, slippery legs entwined, calloused thumbs tracing the contours of sunburnt lips, slickened bodies, the taste of salt–remember?
Window panes rattle, muddy puddles pool tight against the cottage’s loose foundation while we lie awake in separate bedrooms for the first time in forever. The dog perks his ears at the reverberating thunder, the mattress springs groaning beneath your shifting weight, and leaves my side to whimper outside your door. Worms crawl from the damp earth onto the gravel driveway, the middle of the road, allowing the dirt to be washed free of them. They say a worm cut into two heals itself–or at least that’s what I’ve heard.
Kristin Tenor finds inspiration in life’s quiet details and believes in their power to illuminate the extraordinary. Her debut hybrid chapbook, This Is How They Mourn, won Thirty West Publishing’s 8th Wavelengths Contest and will be published in October 2024.
