Good-bye to lavish mercies. Green and lush, the harmless scam lies exposed by little deaths—a blush, a fissured dam, some mild dismay. Diminishment. The hush of who I am. First snow has not yet fallen, and the sun is stinging bright, demanding discipline, as one by one, my once airtight beloved arguments have come undone, overnight. I see the forest. I can see each tree, the blackened ground, the field behind, the space inside of me that makes no sound, yet aches for what I’m not, but need to be— lost. Then found. by Catherine Chandler |
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