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Sons who want to become poets


by Krisztina Fehervari

published first in Absinthe Revival



For the first time since they met in December, she lets him lift her skirt in the speckled shadow of the oak tree. The shapeless wheat field stretches out before them as his hand lingers on her knee. 


Propped up on his elbow, he speaks of love. His dad is a lawyer, but he writes poetry. She thinks he isn’t good, but likes it anyway. 


The honey of your kiss

Moistens my hungry lips

The light of your eyes

Penetrates my lonely life


Maybe it’s his voice. Maybe it’s the air. Maybe he will be a good poet one day. The words, like the wheat around them, sway inside her, caressing her soul. She wants more. His fingers travel up her thigh. She stops him with a hesitant hand, moaning, begging for more. He moves closer. The wind picks up. One day he will have a son who will want to be a poet, too. The clouds climb higher and higher. The sky bursts into a million shades of orange. 


She likes sons who want to become poets.



by Krisztina Fehervari

I need to tidy up my room, find the remote control of the TV, charge my laptop, pick up my stuff, make the bed, fold the laundry, and put away my clothes. I need to fix the cracked screen on my phone and organize my Nintendo games.  I need to wash my car. I have to walk the dog and feed the fish.

Sometimes, I wish we had a maid - a poor maid from a poor neighborhood - so I can give everything I have to her. 

The ocean


by Krisztina Fehervari

I wanted to deep-sea dive into the thick waves of your hair. You wanted to build sandcastles on the grainy expanses of my chest. Our vacation would never end. But the waves swept you away before time. Now the sandcastles stand hollow, unfinished, and I drown inside the dune of unspoken words you left behind.    

The girl who comes home


by Krisztina Fehervari

The girl who comes home smells of broken glass and loneliness. She leans into the past, spying on a separate life of someone else, not hers, of course, someone else she thought was her. The sobs she holds within her throat are salty and dry, like the open bag of potato chips left on the couch. In the morning, she unpacks to stay. In the backyard, she invites the sky to seep inside the cracks of her nakedness, then curls into herself, afraid someone's watching, covering her eyes with yellow blades of grass. Earth smells like her, air like the past. Soon, when rain will pour, she'll pack again and sink into the lost trails of fireflies. This time, she won't come home again.    

The accident


by Krisztina Fehervari

first published in Short-Story.Me

People said my husband brought the accident on himself, because he was a workaholic. He worked too hard, too late. It was inevitable, they murmured. He must have been drinking that night, they said. His grey Honda was found smashed against the tree at the entrance of our subdivision.  I say he almost made it home.

The police said he was texting. I say he wanted me to know he was running late. I couldn’t look at that text for years.

He only drank when we had friends over, and never more than a couple of beers. His phone was destroyed in the accident, unable to work anymore. They found the remains on his lap. But I have the time of his text engraved in my brain. He wasn’t texting when he crashed.

Some nights, when I drive our son back from baseball practice, I still see his car at the stoplight, waiting to turn into our neighborhood. I see his fingers curled furiously around the wheel, his lips a tight line of stress. I had scolded him, screamed even, for being late all the time. Baseball games went by without a father, parent meetings, school recitals, couples retreat. I blamed him for our son’s bed wetting and my sleepless nights. I see his lips still pressed tightly as he slams on the accelerator, ignoring the red light.

Other times, I can see the phone on his lap, on silent mode, nearing the stoplight. He taps his thumb on the wheel, his forehead wrinkled at a thought - a looming deadline at work maybe, the anticipation of his supper on our dinner table, a gift for our anniversary. He doesn’t notice the red light and barely dodges the oncoming car. The Honda swivels, and he loses control over the wheel. His eyes open wide, his lips form a terrified O before his body bursts into million pieces.

At the altar, twelve years ago, he’d promised to love me and honor me always, and bring up our children according to the law of Christ.

He was a workaholic – a father, nevertheless, who occasionally tucked our son in and kissed him good night. A husband. Someone to share my life with.

Our son still wets his bed sometimes and I can’t sleep at night.

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