by Bill Yarrow
“There's blood on your cheek, Galatea”
—Dr. Gogol in Mad Love
The time they drove through Delaware
listening to Poogy, planning the future
and she sat up like a Chagall bride, told
him she was afraid. “Of what?” he asked
“Of an icy life,” she said. No fear of that,
he assured her, and she believed him, madly
All rights reserved.
This poem appeared in BLIP Magazine (now New World Writing), guest edited by Courtney Eldridge.
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).
This poem was republished in The Jewish Journal.