Tobi Alfier

The Lies She Breathes

The blustery day is buzzed
on wind and light. He told her
the river was too boulder-strewn
to swim in but she swung out on the tire
and she was safe. He shook his head—
he’d been on too many roads
he could never call home
and she was one of them.

This is the season of love and lies,
of wine for no reason
while listening to Patsy Cline
on the old stereo, while dancing
in shoes so high it’s a balancing act,
kisses so sweet even though come morning
she is like the river—not safe
and too cold.

Fog sits on the street
like breath on a mirror,
like words that can never be unheard,
unsaid. The fortune teller in her tiny house
speaks of the unholy devils
you cannot deny. She speaks of winter’s
last chance at ice. You run to the river like sun
that breaks through a storm and you jump.

Tobi Alfier’s credits include Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Cholla Needles, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Louisiana Literature, Permafrost, Ragaire, and Washington Square Review. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).