Sometimes the penultimate line
is the poem’s true end.
It is your husband, the sudden stranger,
in the bed you’ve shared for half a life.
It is the pang before sex,
the slipping of the waxy newborn,
the inhale before prayer
the tumble to death.
poetry
wax poetic
Ladies and gentlemen sidestep
slick sidewalks,
glance sideways
at old lovers in puddles
because it is easier that way.
Ladies and gentlemen, swallow
the chalky moon,
swallow it whole
with your eye
like an aspirin.
Wax poetic
about its inconstancy
but it never turns
a new cheek or a blind eye.
It always swells
with love, or pride, or anger,
with whatever light
finds it.
evelynwestbrook 