by kvennarad

“We are constantly doing things for
..the last time. The last thing I saw
..was the red of the field before I lay

..down in sleep and woke up in sleep
..– something my placard will never
..tell you in lieu of a barebones story.

..My eyes dying is a reminder to you
..all, that there will be a last time that
..you’ll toss a coin into my old cap.”


The painted bird glides, sure as a coat
of rust, down Simile Street, avoiding
the maw and teeth in the darkness of
Metaphor Alley; when we find a burned
-out car, we see if we can see a star from
where we found the car or, travelling on,
regard and remark the gutter-piling of
grey dust, bays and inlets, coastal hills
of an imagined nation, the land of loss.


She feels an unsung wife on an unsafe
wire, but moves through the fair taking
in the unfairness; she pauses, considers

buying a calendar, sees its squareness,
how each day’s a place for a chessman;
only then she knows to make a knight’s

move without taking a step, opposite in
a set of six! Only there she knows love,
how it stands in a flow and braves loss.


jupiter©Marie Marshall