Ray slaps another length of paper on the wall,
brushes it smooth, makes sure the roses
align at the seams, sealed like an envelope over
his own handwriting, a message he penned
into the white plaster to Alice that he’ll whisper
to her later in bed. He steps back, dreading
the thought of waking every morning
to all these roses, then leans against a wall,
peels the seal from a pack of Luckies
releasing the aroma of fresh tobacco.
Alice, who chose the wallpaper, opens
the front door, pushes strands of hair
from her face while clutching keys and a bag
of groceries. She calls out his name
more like a question as if one day he might
not be here because Ray has better things to do
than paper a room. Alice kicks off her shoes
and steps softly up the stairs. She sees him
leaned against the wall like a guy in a cigarette ad,
wisps of smoke lingering through sunlight.
Ray hated the wallpaper, but woke every morning
to it with Alice until he was gone. The paper
yellowed, and the seams he carefully sealed
parted to reveal what he forgot to say to Alice.
Bill Garvey‘s poetry has appeared in many journals across North America and beyond. His book of poetry, entitled The basement on Biella, was published by DarkWinter Press in 2023. His second book is due in April 2026.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 