By Stephanie Trenchard

I hear the tub-water gurgle as my husband’s bath drains and I am tired and still hungry. The fire pops, tomorrow will be a big day, first day back after Sarasota, a working vacation. Soon he will shut his door. Sadness creeps into my bones, or maybe into my heart. Florida was fun—the king-size bed, late night whispering—but tonight he sleeps in another room, and I will sleep in our quiet bedroom. The wrinkled blanket on the couch needs straightening and I wish that the earth wasn’t getting so warm. Within our friend group there are two long marriages that are dissolving. The dog barks in his sleep, muffled yelps, slightly startling, the anxiousness of a dog’s dreams, chasing squirrels or perhaps a masters’ absence. On PBS a scientist holds a chunk of ancient permafrost in her hand. It is dense black like space, and when the temperature warms up in her lab it begins to sprout green buds. It held life within its darkness, maybe God is carbon. Now his door is shut, and I sit alone by the fire in darkness. Surly I will sleep well with no snoring or disruption. I know he loves me. The dog sleeps snuggled alone on his cushion, which will eventually become landfill before putting off methane gas from the bits of skin and hair that are embedded, and again, I exhale, reminding myself that I am assembled molecules. There are newly discovered forms spotted in the Milky Way, sinewy feminine, curious, and so graceful and mysterious that an artist could have drawn them, and there is no explanation.

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Stephanie Trenchard , a visual artist, working primarily in hot glass and oil painting, out of her rural Wisconsin studio. In contrast to her once-molten-glass sculptures, which can be found in museums and collections, writing and publishing poetry is one of her cooler passions. Her poetry can be found in The Dillydoun Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, and The Closed Eye Open. You can find her on twitter as or on Instagram @stephanietrenchard or see her work at

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