• kay-anne

This particular bitterness

This particular bitterness is a pill I can swallow

when named

for all the days in between when I

woke up feeling like I would always

have less.


Half torn shoelaces tied up in this city

that pieces itself together, I collect

words like tiny flecks of snow landing

on the skin of my neck.


I throw everything dead in my room

away and fry a scallion pancake, tell

myself, it is enough.


Listen to the women in ceramics

discuss their marriages disintegrating

and feel sorry for myself still.


I turn over my small relief in my mouth,

place it beneath my tongue. Keep it

safe for the day I might need it back

and hope that never comes.


I am not hurtling anymore.


I am remembering what it was like to

see you on the 37 bus which isn’t even

called that anymore which maybe you

don’t ride now on tuesdays but I still

think of how I reveled in running into

your routine, your lines crossing mine.


I consider inevitability. Ending,

beginning, becoming. The

ludicrousness of feeling it, the quiet

action of living it. Remembering I know

how to glint.


It is the first time I have taken winter at

its word. Solitude, it’s joy, and rest.

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