7/30/2023 Poetry by Sarah HornerCarl Wycoff CC
Como We make homes of temporary places—we are weeds rising from cracks in the street and lichen on a rock before it gets scrubbed off. Some things grow with purpose but we do it just because we can, just to say we did. We will look back and miss the wandering way of our bodies—or maybe we won’t and that will be fine. Walking home in the dim and newborn morning, unreasonably comfortable because the snow in the street lights it up like day, we are faintly aware of this transitory phase but mostly feel it’ll last forever—until one by one we start packing and planning and pretending we’re ready. We hold hands on the bus because that’s the time for it—sappy, drunk, paranoid. In the spring we recoup on the roof because we don’t have a patio but make do with what we’ve got. It tints our feet black and we’re always tracking in dirt, reckless. But we will keep cleaning it up again and again until it becomes someone else’s job, others like us who will see the dents we left in the walls, the hardened wax on the floor, the sparse marks that prove we existed. Sarah Horner is a writer whose work explores themes such as femininity and mental illness. She lives in Minneapolis, studies literature, and frequently ponders a future in the arts. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Defunkt Magazine, Across the Margin, The Bitchin' Kitsch, and Mantis. Comments are closed.
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