Sweethearts
There is no wind in the barely lit
afternoon bar. The man next to me
says to the woman on the stool next to him,
“I think you and your fish
should move in with me.”
The woman smiles, says nothing,
but offers him her hands; their eyes
grow wide like fields of Iowa corn,
like green fields of soy before they turn
autumn rust. And as their hearts
sit naked on the bar, thumping,
bloody for all to see, I think how hard
it must be to move a fish. 
Contributor’s
notes
For the Record
From Grace to Goshen
Not Whiskey
Son