Sean Anderson

  You were tall-masted in the breeze, sloop-rigged on the day of your first landing. I blessed your coming cautiously, as was my way, and offered you pearls from the deepest shelf. Your hair was shorter than mine, and I was comfortable in the modern coat you lent me. My ...

Just as your toes are warming up beneath the covers, the wife whispers “Darling, America wants to come in out of the cold,” so you grumble through the frigid kitchen to the door, and there sits this orange cat looking all matted and filthy from who-knows-what rubbish ...

  By the bureau you swam into black cloth, belted red. Perfect mourning marked with fire; sorrow for blood shed long ago in some other bed. You dressed without looking at me, not daring the glance that might have held you for a stammering moment. Three steps in stockings ...