Back Home
Coming home on those frigid nights,
the car filled with silence and cigarette smoke,
headlights cutting through darkness that felt
like a wicked embrace.
Looking out at flat farm fields covered
with snow, my brother curled asleep
as we shared the backseat.
They’d fought in the front – about
trivial matters that grew out of proportion
thanks to years of momentum and weariness,
then grew silent as the anger lingered
like a trip-wire.
Go to bed he said to us as soon as we
got inside, and we would – wearily
pulling off heavy clothes and sliding
under blankets – too exhausted to sleep
but waiting for the long, cut-to-the-bone
argument that was about to begin.
The February wind rattled the windowpanes
as if a prelude to madness.
.
Coldest Day of Winter
Walking by the river
into a merciless wind
that takes tiny bites
from your cheeks
while the first sun
in days hangs uselessly
above, you barely
resist the urge to stop
and laugh at the absurdity
of it all.
© Bruce Gunther
Bruce Gunther is a former journalist and writer who lives in Michigan. He’s a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poems have appeared in the Loch Raven Review, the Dunes Review, Modern Haiku, Arc Poetry, and others.
The Loch Raven Review 