I tried to close my eyes, but couldn’t manage. It was only a split second, after all, and I’d done this before. The seventy-odd feet between my eyes and the ground beneath them sent such a visceral chill through my spine that my feet forgot to brace for our landing.
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There is a certain odd flavor of loneliness that exists in a college town in the summer. The parking lots, once a warzone worthy of a history biopic, have their pick of spots no matter the time.
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“I am a woman. I am feminine. I am king.”
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“Am I still everything you hoped I would be?”
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Your mother never taught you Spanish / Not a question, but a phrase I commonly heard from the /Twin tongued women of my neighborhood.
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One hour each way, mainly two-lane highways / I drive past grazing cattle, haybales // Tiny towns with one gas pump, / Two churches, and a red brick street.
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“Usually Bird Lady doesn’t say or do anything unusual, and that’s where our conversation about her ends. But this week has deviated from the norm.”
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“He first feels the ghost when he’s ten-years-old and plays for an audience for the first time. His ten-year-old fingers are thin and smooth and a bit too short to stretch the way he needs them to, but the ghost helps him.”
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“You’re there when the leaves change. / They crunch under my feet like crepe paper,”
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“The day you died, snow fell / as if the sky were apologizing / for the hardness of the Earth and darkness of night,”
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“I look forward as I run, through the mist, fog, thick, dense. There is a hill; if we get there, we can roll down and shield ourselves.”
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“I can only bench the bar,” you’ll tell your guy friends jokingly. Everyone will laugh, including you, but you’ll wonder why you felt the need to make a joke of it.
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