Slow by Janis Greve

Too shy, too sensitive,
to utter them outright,
words, when they came, seemed to flutter
from your eyelashes,
weighed first like packets of sand,

then paced slowly,
deliberately,
one word
in front of the other,
keeping us in rapt suspense
as you rounded the curves of a blue-eyed yarn,
beer bottle in hand.

This, too, was the way you moved,
stork-like, unhurried,
one leg lifting,
settling,
taking measure of the ground,
before the other followed suit—
the patient progress of a lanky man.

Oh, how it sunk in,
the deep, contagious tremor of your laughter
spreading out across the couch cushions,
stealing up spines,
until a mountain range of quaking shoulders,

sweet, convulsing release,
as we watched Monty Python downstairs,
all of us taut teenagers then.

I refuse to say that you “committed” anything—
one day you had the gumption
to do what you’d been putting off,

the loneliest task there is,

in the bathroom, the soap that loved you
one last time,
in the crisper drawer,
romaine lettuce and green peppers found fresh.



Janis Greve teaches literature at UMass Amherst, specializing in autobiography, disability, and service-learning. In addition to writing poetry, she makes comics. She has previously published in such places as The Florida Review, New Delta Review, North American Review, and The Berkshire Review, among other places.