TFR Home Page TFR Home PageContents ContentsPrev. Page Prev. PageNext Page Next PageComments Comments

Sunday Mornings
By Aimee Stoddard

She wanted him now only when she had to:
Sunday mornings sometimes.
She thought of his rolls on his skinny stomach
and his bursted red veins
and coarse white hairs
and yellow stained teeth:
Too many mugs of coffee.
She feigned headaches and backaches
and told him it was that time of month
He always turned his back and thought
of her fine soft hair
and stared at the shadows the covers made:
Billowing ghosts dancing stationary with one another.

TFR Home Page | Submission Guidelines | Frequently Asked Questions | Sign Our Guest Book | Contents | Donations
Workshops | Event Calendar | TFR Background | How to Contact Us | Editors and Authors Only | Privacy Statement

© Copyright 1997, 2019, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 01/06/2007

(i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o),

ga('create', 'UA-22493141-2', 'auto');
ga('send', 'pageview');