by Anastasia Kirchoff
Home. All my Memories of it, framed in white. Whenever I return from my travels, it seems to be winter. Stark. The snow biting at everything exposed. But it wouldn’t be Christmas without snow. Nearby are train tracks where I used to walk my dog. She lived to be three. Purebreds always have trouble.
How long have I been back? Time moves abnormally here, like river water under ice. I spend time visiting places from my childhood, like tourist attractions. Avoiding the people that were actually there, then.
The wind pulls at my coat. But it’s inside that I shiver.
I unravel exquisitely
behind the barriers of rage and flesh
I can almost remember feeling desired
by Susan Richardson
by Joseph Murphy
Tell me what I’ve done?
My eyes ache.
My hands are two men
shouting at one another
in different languages.
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