FOR AUGUSTINE, BY LAUREN GREEN |
Let the paystubs and keys, the ocean liners in the Atlantic; Octobers, Novembers— let them disappear. The thinning mothers whose skin turns tulle. Let calamitous winds push the barrel down the hill. The clock’s hands angle backward, & the eyelid of snow shut to oncoming deer. Throw stones. Downwind, downwhistle, the ducks dive to cool themselves. Shake the bats from my hair, shuttle their songs in bowls to the riverside. And open my hand mirror to see my face, my yellow bedroom emerging behind me. That calendar more than ten years old I have kept for the photos. Let the bewilderment of love overpower the bewilderment of grief. Let day discombobulate the silt. It is my dream to sit in wisteria-ceiled rooms with all the strangers I will someday love & have them never leave. |
Lauren Green is a fellow at the Michener Center for Writers. Her work has appeared in American Short Fiction, The Adroit Journal, Conjunctions, Glimmer Train, and elsewhere. She currently resides in Austin.