ON YOUR DECISION NOT TO COME TO INDIANA
Walking to class so early, the greenhouses
I expect their responses to be: Weird, who does
me? The snapdragons (I try not to remember
lean into the windows. They bear their blunt yellow teeth
their sterile beds. In the dark wind, I walk to that:
worry, I’ll learn from what they say: most words
Love can’t be said—anyhow, I understand where
CHOPIN LEFT ON THE VOICEMAIL
I imagine you’re waiting in your truck,
your cell phone records the radio. I hear
teenagers loitering outside on the sidewalk.
by the garage, burr knots in my cardigan.
finding solace. But for now my hands are
Rebecca Bednarz currently lives
and writes in Lincoln, Nebraska. Her poems are forthcoming in Prairie
Schooner, Mid-American Review, and The Threepenny
© 2007 Swink, Inc.