Edgar Allen Poe, by Bob Bradshaw

Edgar Allan Poe, photographer not known, US Library of Congress, c. 1840s.

​Edgar Allan Poe

He would recall Virginia
—his child bride—years into their marriage
gazing at him like a gosling
sighting her first moon….

When that first small drop of blood
quivered on her lower lip--
her fingers trembling
out another note

on the piano Edgar
had taught her how to play--
Edgar withheld the truth,
saying “It’s only a ruptured

capillary.”  He had tutored 
his wife as well on geometry
and astronomy,
the two together following

the slow movements of stars
as if they too had all 
the time in the world,
for Virginia to grow up.

For years her health 
would re-bloom for weeks
only to fail once more,
like a short spring.

His hands jittery,
his grief as raw as any whiskey,  
he stroked her hair, limp with sweat.
He nursed her day and night,

and became a candle on a small table,
a vigilant, faltering flame--  
blood spotting Virginia's
white bed cover.

Recalling his mother’s 
early death-- 
while Virginia’s fingers
grasped his in those last hours--

Edgar knew what he 
had tried to ignore for years... 
those he loved would always
let go, leaving him

behind

Bob Bradshaw
​
Bob Bradshaw is recently retired, and living in California.  He is a big fan of the Rolling Stones.  Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is.  Bob's work can be found in many publications on the net, including Apple Valley Review, Eclectica, Loch Raven Review, Peacock Journal and Pedestal Magazine, among others.