By Charles Rafferty
We never heard a sound coming from our neighbors, who were separated from us by thick walls of forsythia. Still, whenever we made love, Donna insisted on closing the windows. She would even lock the bedroom door, though we had no children, not even a cat that could nose its way in. Later, when we had stopped making love altogether, the house held our silence like a broken bell. Anyone listening as they let their dog pee against our mailbox would be unable to guess whether ours was a house of passion or devastation. Even the packing up was quiet.
Charles Rafferty’s most recent collection of poems is The Smoke of Horses (BOA Editions, 2017.)