Two Poems

Ruth M. Malins


He can’t remember
how they fit together,
the curve of each other,
the crook of his arm—
a haven for her.
He can’t remember
the way she swallowed down
his easy comfort
or the snow,
a lace handkerchief
in her hair.
He can’t remember
his own name today.



She wants to stop the pain
that makes her fold into herself
like an old woman,
so many small injuries
bleeding into one another,
she hangs onto them
the way wet fingers
stick to an icicle,
her hopes flattened out
years ago, crushing her
with their weight,
her features fold,
face melting into hands,
her eyes curtain over.

“I am a 58-year old environmental educator. I recently began painting and writing. I am having the time of my life!” E-mail: RuthHVA[at]

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