Dry Cough Death


Love awoke, its soft stroke
along the curve
of my waist, hips,
coffee carefully set
on my bedside table,
assuring embraces in the dark hours,
eyes locked during decisive
intimate moments.

Love dies, robs
my recognitions, shrivels
and dehydrates into
a dry cough,
asphyxiates into ashes
slowly blowing
across my bed, through
my windows,
disappearing into the night.

Love lies as cold and skeletal
as my car’s metal frame
on that winter day
you did not
come home.


Author of novel, When the Ugly Comes, Xlibris, Carmen Eichman earned her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing and Literature from Kansas State University and is now an Assistant Professor of English in North Carolina. Eichman’s poetry has appeared in A Little Poetry, All Things Girl, The Argotist Online, Subtle Tea, Invisible Ink, Contemporary American Voices to name a few.