Maybe winter, maybe nothing; negative space
become positive, like a memory of snow.
Something was lying there behind her eyes,
where she could only feel it. And still, it drifted
in the clouded mirror above the bed,
in the steam from the teakettle and the picture frame
that enclosed an iteration of her brother,
seven months dead. Words fell from the ceiling.
She wrote for an hour. (He would have known
what needed to be said.) Quiet, so quiet,
they lay on the page remote and unspoken.
Rebekah Curry is an alumna of the University of Kansas and the University of Texas at Austin. Her chapbook Unreal Republics is available from Finishing Line Press, and her work has also appeared in journals including Antiphon, Mezzo Cammin, and Blue Lyra Review. See more at rebekahcurry.tumblr.com.
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