These moves predate the century before last, when we first met to sketch maps of how we would connect. In the beginning, all we shared was a language, a grid, ships placed where we saw fit. The questions would flow, first about colors, later covering frailties—the heartbreaks that sharpened our eye contact. We faced each other upright, never in it for just the hits, no joy in the process of elimination. This time spent across from each other, discreet notes we rolled and balled, it dulled our pulses to massive hulls. Long before we could turn to partitioned pegs, we dissolved in our straight lines.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 2.
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