Va = Air Voids

The quick inhalation
after bending a peek
at two dealt aces –
a tell nobody sees
but the guy
with the kings
who folds
against your all in.
The worry between,
“Where did you go,”
“I needed a little space,”
and “Can I please have a kiss?”
The inability to respond
over the phone
after you’ve been asked
if you’re sitting down.

VMA = Voids in Mineral Aggregate

Postholes, a tilled vegetable patch,
an aerated lawn. Where that old tree
used to be before the roots went bad
and the stump got hauled away.
One rectangular space you’re hoping
all five will come to cry over.
A dry riverbed of things left unsaid.

VFA = Voids Filled with Asphalt

Old photos. Sharing a banana split.
The sound of “huggy, huggy, huggy”
coming from two feet off the ground
before you can even sit down
to take off your boots. Remembering
the taste of lemon on your fingers
as you picked translucent bones
from each bite of the mountain trout
you caught the summer after you discovered girls.
The way she tilts her head and smiles while waiting
for you to agree that you were wrong.


This poem first appeared in The Pedestal Magazine.
Used here with the author’s permission.