For Gladys

I watched a woman fall
apart when her husband dropped
dead at her feet. Not a soul went back
to the house after that, where gladiolas
lined the fence and one by one they stopped
coming up. Everyone remembers

how she spoke so highly of her glads,
how unaware she was now of a story
that grew around her husband, how
one by one he pulled them back
into the earth. They thought of him
collecting them in his empty skull,
thinking someday her tears
might reach him.

But she, too, dropped dead
one day descending a flight
of stairs in a different house.
And the only thing we notice
now is the dark garage
where all their tools
are locked inside.

—

George Bishop was raised on the Jersey Shore until relocating to the central Florida area in 1989. Recent work has appeared in Freshwater, The Meadow, Barnstorm and is forthcoming in The Griffin and Third Wednesday. His chapbook Love Scenes will be released by Finishing Line Press in the Fall 2009. He is also currently a poetry reviewer for the publication Sotto Voce.