by Joseph M. Rein

Bound to Flight

Today you left with all windows open, the December cold driving itself into our room and under the sheets. The last time we held hands: when was it? September, maybe. It was a sunny day— you wanted popcorn and I baseball, desires so coiled that you went ahead and said meant to be, and I, I was foolish enough to believe. Yesterday you told me it hasn’t been easy from the start, and as always I agree. My love is like a red red robin, small and bound to flight.

Walk to Merrimount

On our walk to Merrimount you said you were sorry. It burst from you, hiccupped out of your lips, then slowed, hung fog-like between us. A bird’s chitter swooped down and bounced off it—you looked at me and I looked away. Then it turned porcelain, fell, shattered at our feet. On walks to Merrimount I feel it grate and crackle beneath my feet, but the pieces—they never become sand, not soft, not light enough to drift away.

Joseph M. Rein is the Assistant Coordinator of the Creative Writing Department at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, where he is pursuing his doctorate in English. He has previously published in The Wisconsin Review, Concho River Review, Fiction Weekly, Ampersand Review, Burdock, and Fox Cities Magazine.