Cover

The morning starts as if a dream, with downed trees and misty silence.



Thoreau and I tramp down uneven cement and stone. We turn through brambles and glide over patches of green.

What is this day? Where did everyone hide during the storm? I spent late last night pacing the floor in my pajamas and peering out the window, watching the wind and rain sprint and then gust/gush down Jefferson Avenue. I waited for the end of the siren's piercing wail. I would not call this fearless moment. James checked the weather online and when the siren did stop, we calmed Thoreau and then slipped back into bed. As I dropped into slumber, I could hear the ever-fading voice of James telling me where one should go in case of a tornado. I dreamt of water pouring through a cracked window and the dark, musty corner of the basement of my childhood home. We sat at a card table with an emergency radio, playing cards by candlelight.

intention

For this small space in time, sitting, ankles crossed and toes curled, I feel the weight of those pints and cigarettes, that shoddy conversation, my fake smile.

The elastic curve of my forehead draws up and my breath skims and shakes. Why do I even try to pretend? What brings this flourescent light to my eyes? What blocks out each corresponding memory?