Poetry by Rachel Small

              Wesley Carr CC



LOVER

Bring me what is left of you after the rain has stopped. Do you remember that breakfast we shared in the old apartment? Bring me the remains of it. A spoon, an egg. I’d settle for the shell. I can’t stop thinking about the bike path along the water. We always said that we would walk it, one day. It has been two years and not once did we explore it. Goodness, we carry our wishes in our hands and walk across a field of dreams. Bring me the last good thought you ever had. I should have asked this before. When you talked about the cat, the old jar of spaghetti sauce. I wanted to grow a garden with you, someday. We would both bring soil and seed, turn a scrap of nothing into a season. How did we once begin without either of us knowing one another? The first time we slept side by side I couldn’t imagine stretching a hand out to touch the remains of a summer tan. Bring me that, a sad pillow and a happy morning. We made it past that. This is a rush of amber. September, cracked open. We each hold half, both precious. I think this moment was meant to be intentional. You brought yourself across a dance floor and last night the moon bowed to the bus stop, the old sign dividing provinces neatly. You’ve brought me just about everything, haven’t you?

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Rachel Small is a writer born and raised outside of Ottawa, Ontario. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in deathcap magazine, the winnow magazine, Ample Remains, Northern Otter Press, bywords magazine, and Handwritten & Co. You can find her on Twitter @rahel_taller.