Tonight's Poet Corner: White Liver

White Liver
by Belinda Roddie

He said he couldn't keep up with her.
The train tracks were laid out, and he
was running in his flip-flops against
a grinning, hyper locomotive. Whistling
all the way to the end.

I passed him a cup of coffee and he drank it
hard and fast. Kicking back caffeine like
whiskey, in an effort to burp away the
exhaustion. "She crashed into me,"
he announced, without shame, "like a tidal wave."

Some people call this white liver, as in
she had white liver. It's a weird image
to me. The pure hue of an organ
that has nothing to do with the hot comfort
of a hotter bed. No wild ovaries, no

aching loins or crazed, half-opened eyes.
Just white liver. And as I sat

at my kitchen table, watching him
refill his coffee, I wondered if his stomach,
or liver, could keep up with anything.
While she, the smiling train, barreled onward,
with a belly full of colorless fire.