Her family jostled and congealed in fertile suburbs−a place on a map
embroidered with mirrors. Plenty of gazes
on the soles of their feet. Everyone entered through the back door,
dragging their wet words
behind them. What pauses wielded in passing.
Instead of facts, they dealt in defenses, each wearing
only the jacket
of his or her reason. The girl pulled
into a room of herself
and remained, sealing empty envelopes. How hard she worked
to find the eloquent small cadence of saying:
yes, yes, that might be impossible.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 2.
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