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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 10, Number 2, June 2016

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Bill Gottlieb
Cobb, California, USA


Icings

We were side by side on a loveseat—your tumorous bone by my cushiony skin, you thin, cancer-carved—when the waiter brought out “The Fog”—a banana cream dark chocolate cake with butterscotch sauce—layers of favorites!—surprising, rising pillows of white subliming around the plate, a dessert delighting you with its conceit, sweet taste, you, deprived of fine food, of any sights but inside the hospital, the house. Later you threw it and the entrée up. But so what. We were happy as a birthday, a day you weren’t dead, as day to day we silently wondered when you would be. We had four months more, I know now—with some ice cream in my freezer, accreting ice; ice, a dessert a ghost might eat, and get whiter.

over the mountain
low clouds
frost drought

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