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NINE MONTHS AFTER YOU LEAVE ME, MY RED LINGERIE STILL UNWASHED
​threadbare, in futility,
             the broken inches
of our lost hours
 
grasping out for a world already
             driven by.
The limp roadkill of red silk lingers
 
and I recall it is said
             that an invisible red cord
connects those destined to meet,
 
how it may tangle,
             but love combs through,
leaving its pieces intact, too strong
 
to break
             by chance
or force. Of love,
 
I know enough
             to know it only reaches me
through exception,
 
needing no more
             evidence of my untetherings,
still unready
 
to see how little there is
             to wash off,
dwelling in the impossibility
 
of these grasps:
             ​how the longer one holds near,
memory becomes that of holding
 
what was already in the distance,
             the nights I clutch
only to my own arms
 
to become a dream of a different self,
             sitting in the window,
hair down,
 
see how little
             it has grown, see the distance
between the split ends,
 
the loose threads,
             the absence waiting
on the other side
 
the nights I close myself
             ​in the burning house
in which no drawer could contain
 
my redness


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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP