The Other Side Of A Continent
Ó 1994 Rosemary O’Brien
Used by Permission.
He had come across the country,
from one to the other side of a continent,
where heading East meant away from the ocean,
not toward it.
Where flowers that only grew in hothouses
grew out in the open air
as if they were weeds.
It was midnight there.
She would be lying asleep with the lamp on and
a book opened on her chest.
He could picture it as if he were there,
leaning on his elbow beside her
on top of the blue comforter that kept her warm.
A length of her brown hair resting across her check
where it settled as her head gently tilted back
and she drifted off to sleep.
If he were there,
or she here,
he would gently lift the novel from her loose grasp,
mark the page and put it aside.
The light would be quietly turned off
so as not to disturb her dreams.
He would carefully raise the covers above her shoulders
and put his lips to her forehead.
A book lay open on his chest as his head tilted back
and he drifted off to sleep
on the other side of a continent.
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