 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.
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February 2023
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