by Ace Boggess
We say love in front of the TV, whisper sex in the bedroom & mean sleep, long sleep, slow sleep, tired like gods at a distance juggling parts of a better-left-forgotten universe. You don’t like the word “old,” & “middle-aged” sounds humdrum like we’ve settled into a marriage when what we want is serenity. You have my full attention, such as it is—a fleeting peek at a heron’s backside launching from reeds into milky absence. Is aging a glue strip on which to settle before dying? Put on your party mask. I’ll grab my suit & start the car. We’ll dance like planets, wobbly in their orbits, drive without a moment’s rest until we get there.
Ace Boggess has authored six poetry books, including Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021), Ultra Deep Field, and The Prisoners. His writing appears in Michigan Quarterly Review, Harvard Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, and elsewhere. He received a fellowship from the West Virginia Commission on the Arts, won the Robert Bausch Fiction Award, and spent five years in a West Virginia prison.