by Timothy Gager

as strong winds lift
the unfastened

off the ground,
you barely notice

what races beneath me—
when you rode me

wept at completion,
propelled yourself an arrow

toward me, such force
I thought for a split second

you made a point that
impaled my cornea

my vision weakened suddenly
as dust kicking up like thick smoke

the gust can’t diffuse,
only makes it denser.

Timothy Gager is the author of ten books of short fiction and poetry. His latest The Shutting Door (Ibbetson Street Press, 2014) was nominated for The Massachusetts Book Award. He has hosted the successful Dire Literary Series in Cambridge, Massachusetts every month for the past thirteen years and is the co-founder of Somerville News Writers Festival. His fiction and poetry has been published over 300 times since 2007 and of which nine have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His work has been read on National Public Radio.