When she said she longed for Venice,
I quietly stepped out and returned
minutes later, hands burdened with two
paper bags: one containing discount pasta
and tomato sauce, one containing boxed
wine and a single taper candle.
I brought her to the table, set a plate
in front of her and lit the candle off the
oven burner. Anyway, I said, it's
probably raining hard over there. And
who can walk around Piazza San Marco
without stepping on the pigeons?
"And whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders."
- Federico Garcia Lorca
Minutes before her heart stopped, she
was telling me not to forget to
feed the dog, how often to water
her potted tomato plants. Make sure,
she reminded, to angle them away
from the sun at its brightest.
She used her last bit of strength
to clench my finger, explaining her love
through curved skin.
About the author:
Andrew Alexander Mobbs is originally from Little Rock, AR. He served in the Peace Corps for two years (Mongolia 2010-12) and eventually found his way to Northern Arizona University, where he studies TESL and applied linguistics. He has released one collection of poetry, Strangers and Pilgrims (Six Gallery Press, 2013), and his work been appeared elsewhere. When he's not writing or grad schooling, he co-edits Nude Bruce Review and walks around aimlessly in his moccasins