By Brad Liening

I came down from the far hills
to drink your wine. I came

to stave in the boat
you keep in your driveway.

I know about the cabin
up north and the silver key

under the fake rock
in the flowerbed.

I’ve run my fingers
along the tasseled edges

of the blankets and quilts
folded in the antique trunk.

I know how you hate
and fear the far hills. I don’t

blame you. I too
would rather be home,

not crouching below your window
in this freezing sleet.

But it’s a rotten life.
That’s what I think about at night.

That’s what I write in blood
on your bedroom door.


Brad Liening lives in Minneapolis, MN, and at Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in unstamatic, SleazeMag, and elsewhere.


2 Poems

Three Dreams