By Peter Krumbach
Sometimes we pretend we are both angels
and phone each other, sitting in the same room,
the doors and windows of our prairie box
open wide, the field crows hopping in.
We step out to the northern porch to fall
asleep on the swing. She reminds me I am no
longer an angel. I remind her of the chic
pet monkey of Frida Kahlo.
We peruse our daily dishonesties. To lie
convincingly, she says, one must hone the craft
of emotional authenticity, the conviction
we spread falsehood to protect the truth.
The day slips on. Before we know it, sweet
wine’s before us. Duck liver on freshly
singed bread. The heavens thunder.
We make marvelous errors.
Peter Krumbach, born in what used to be Czechoslovakia, lives and writes in Southern California. His most recent work has been or is about to be published in The Manhattan Review, Massachusetts Review, Sixth Finch, and Washington Square Review.