Husband: All Earth

Husband: All Earth


Led Zeppelin on Spotify,
movie posters on walls,
Coors Light and Old Spice,

she dove softly into cool dust.

At home, it was canyons and dirt,
long showers after boring sex.
Her husband: all earth.

Here, they were all bodies,

purple Gatorade,
no sleep.


Third Eye Blind on Spotify,
a Monet painting on the wall,
sparkling rosé and sour beer,

he half-swam in her deep waters,
eye-gazed with pretense.

After, she washed the sheets.

Winter was long showers and
horoscopes and a cough she couldn’t

was a ghost and he was a cowboy,
a wolf,
the sun to her orbit.

Her husband: all earth.


Goodfellas on Amazon Prime,
Blue Moon and nicotine,

she dove hard and fast into cooler dust.

On the balcony, he smoked a Marlboro Red,
gestured to Orion.

She searched for Cassiopeia.

Inside, he held the weight of her
hair in his hand.

The moon entered Pisces.
His cool dust turned cold.
Cowboy, wolf,
never hers.

At home, the sex was hot,
old song, new riff.
Her laugh filled the room.

Husband: all earth.

C.B. Walshak is a Virginia-born writer, whose work has been published in Leopardskin & LimesQ/A PoetryFrom Sac and Pamplemousse. She lives with her husband in Charlottesville, VA where she is currently working on her debut novel and pursuing a Masters degree in English.

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