Coda by Mac Campbell


In the morning the woman folds down
the man’s collar and watches him
walk out the door. The door clicks
shut. The body gets locked into the bed.
The bed is the key. The bed smells like the man
but the man is gone. The upstairs neighbor
takes a shower. Dirty water follows
the line in the wall. The mirror follows
the line of the body. The mirror hangs
next to the bed. The woman hangs
a sheet over the mirror. She wants out
of this body, the body the man touched,
the body the man no longer wants to touch.


Mac Campbell received her MFA from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, where she was Poetry Editor for The Greensboro Review. Her recent work appears in Cimarron Review and Red Rock Review. She lives in Richmond, Virginia.

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