Judith Roitman

Four Poems

He was sprawled out on the lawn. Such a strange position. She watched the light change and change again. What is the vantage point? Isn’t the light always changing?


She crossed, unsure of what was happening. Trees looked strange. You could say suddenly but this was uncalled for. How could anyone tell? Someone asked why. Someone said what do you expect. All these drops falling together, you can’t distinguish anything. This is how it starts, one side of the street or another. Her steps among many, arms in slight motion at each side.


It only seems that the consequences of decision are less grave. Two boys follow their mother on the sidewalk. Was it some kind of fungus, a mass of seeds? Looking out the window, all he can see is two brightly colored toy guns, easily half each boy’s height.


With his legs apart like that — it could have been a beach, he had his clothes on — but everything she saw through the windshield was like that, posed and imposing. You might want something but then it would disappear and 25 years later there it was again. You could spill your heart out over and over, heart after heart, endless hearts tumbling after each other. What would it get you?

Judith Roitman lives in Lawrence, Kansas where she teaches (not English) at the University of Kansas. Her poetry has appeared in several chapbooks and a number of journals, including First Intensity, Eleven Eleven, Bird Dog, Black Spring, and Locus Point (electronic). Her book No Face: Selected and New appeared in 2008 (First Intensity Press) and her most recent chapbook Slackline appeared in 2012 (Hank's Loose Gravel Press).
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