Critic

One day’s reprieve
barely caught its breath,
and would stop words
with a mirror in mid-air,
because once landed,
it’s damned either way:
To reply or not —
both add
to the weight.

All the fight’s gone,
and this feigned strength
cracks. It’s
wound up
to bursting —
hope to catch
the first domino
before it falls.

So again upright.
Weary with confession,
wait for the wind to turn.
Frogs hum all along
the still water —
less shallow than it seems.
The grasping weeds
are well knotted.

Clasp hands,
turn to the sun.
Bring a blade
to cut them loose again.
And raise them
before they
pass these boundaries
into the landscape
of irrevocable night.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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