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WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.
I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze
like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.
Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;
safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
JackMy grandmother fell in love with my grandfather when his skin was still yellow with malaria.
At twenty-four, he had just returned from war, his pockets heavy as his heart, weighed down with souvenir scars and unspent bullets. Gaping trenches hung beneath each of his dark eyes like open, sore wounds, or sorer memories. At nineteen, she had not known the taste of oranges. The first time she held one, she bit straight into the pasty skin, expecting sweetness and coming up with shell-fragments.
In the pictures, my grandmother, radiant in her gray wedding dress, stands before my grandfather. Those trenches are still there, still yawning beneath each eye like caskets, but they are beginning to fold under, to fill themselves in. Standing together, they are joined by out-stretched hands, his free fingers reaching up to hold her cheek in his palm, the pale skin there blushing the softest pink: a single petal, unfolding, held erect in his hewn hands. In the pictures, it is there in the space lef
In the morning, the postman comes around seven. Maggie would give her usual warning gruff from her spot on the rug, her head raised, her ears perked. When the mail car sputtered away, Maggie would bring herself to rise slowly and pad to the window where she'd probe the glass curiously with her nose. Seeing nothing, she would return to her well-worn spot and drop like a sack of mail.
Every day, a little death
Every death, a little day
There came a time where I realized I couldn't see the curiosity in Maggie's eyes. Sure, she'd sniff around the yard excitedly, or wag her tail when we went to the park, but the way she looked at thingslike the way she slowly moved her head to watch me cookis like she looked through them. When I dropped something, she'd follow it lazily with her eyes and then lay her had comfortably on her paws, unaffected. Even when I called her over, she rose with effort, and sniffed the food briefly before gently lapping it up. She looked a
10 Things On Our Friendship1
i feel like i have to live up to a standard or rather
a non-standard; i mean, you said
you'd never met anyone like me before, and now i have to
keep being someone you have never met, except
i can only be me
and you've already
met that person.
it used to be comfortable around you before you knew me,
before i needed to be someone who would
surprise you, and maybe this is all
in my head (honestly, there's so much shit
in there, i can barely keep track), but i feel like you're
expecting me to be extraordinary all the time, to make you
feel like you're escaping the real world when you're with me
but i am real too and sometimes it's me who needs
i have thoughts in my head that
turn into flesh-eating bugs and nibble at my
insides. unless you find that miraculous
i cannot be your daily dose of miracle.
tell me which do you like, you know
like in those psychology tests, answer
me or the challenge;
me or the puzzle;
me or the trapdoor;
me or t
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