Winter 2016 — THE POTOMAC

Two Poems

C.L. Bledsoe

Some Days

Some days, your head begins to
ache in low words, waves pushing
against your thoughts so nothing

makes sense. Maybe someone has
dog hair on their sleeve. Maybe
you're dying. Of course, we're all

dying; some do it faster
and better than others is
all. And you finally have

a theme song: every time
you move, percussion bursts from
your joints. No one said it was

easy becoming who you
always were and never meant
to be. But you've learned something

at least: peace is more cat than
dog; it doesn't come when called,
but waits for the settled lap.


If I could say that I knew
her, maybe that would comfort
me. She came to the townhouse

on campus maybe twice to
play with our pet rats. I can't
remember her face—after,

they took her out of the school
yearbook—though I do recall
her laughing at a joke my

then–wife made, something about
the poor fashion sense of men.
They found her body hidden—

she made sure no kid would be
the one to discover her.
She hadn't been there long, just

since after dinner. It was
my first year, teaching. At least
it wasn't me who found her.

Top | Home / Mailing List / Contact
All materials, text, images 2006 - 2012 The Potomac. All rights reserved.