Excuse me, lover. I’m busy foretelling and protesting your end. Whether I hunt, gather, barter, or sell, what I worry over is the order: live oaks, shorelines, wide-eyed and flammable creature I adore. By day, I admit no shadow as backup: crow, please keep your clever forensics. What would I do with a cardboard guitar, a map of the planets, and a box of building blocks, alone? Another bereavement I haven’t unlearned: to bury one hope inside another, and I, having made a home of limbo (I keep a black hole more spotless than cozy), once traveled through time at will, invisible. Now, not so free. My beloved grows heavier, hardier, heavenward. Certain grief pre-scorches me. Copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Ford. Used with permission of the author. |
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