Near Miss

© Beth Roberts

In winter summer's a myth. Amiss. I had breasts and beneath them, ribs long as Abel's wonder, now this. See the jagged horizon across the cleaned chest? There a creature lives in winter. Summer's a myth. A Miss something or other nurse who bets on the horses and has a debt list long as Abel's wonder . . . now this morning she says, Look at this: You are full of your own moments. In winter summer's a lisp, shhh, I see the heart, my genie genesis, doling out its furled concentrics long as Abel's wonder. Now this was like a kiss, a series. Him beating me to the grass. In winter summer's a myth amiss, a long and able wonder. Now this.