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SUCH RESIDUES FROM FACT TO YOU<br />
by Emelia Reuterfors<br />
tired synapses<br />
pluck loosely<br />
strung harp<br />
my mourning dress<br />
buttons up my neck<br />
attachments.<br />
how a brown leaf falls away<br />
as passerby.<br />
i pull up such omens<br />
and wrap them in linen<br />
shove them in my pocket<br />
such delicate things.<br />
was the horse struck<br />
across the back?<br />
did we rotate arms?<br />
unaffectionate children<br />
grab my clothes, my braided<br />
stomach<br />
crafted to retain<br />
these watermarks<br />
and how did we know so soon?<br />
did the bathtub overflow?<br />
the sky’s result:<br />
censored images<br />
blur as i walk home.<br />
everything spilling<br />
MI SUEÑO/MY DREAM<br />
by Sarah Jones<br />
It was the red blend we drank<br />
at dinner in Springs before<br />
trespassing the Pollock estate.<br />
Over a chain-link fence,<br />
under big moonlight—<br />
I hardly remember your words—<br />
Only the even cadence of<br />
our feet in wet grass, and<br />
the small triangle of bay,<br />
full-mooned and rippled<br />
like the steep staircase of El Castillo.<br />
You stood like a stone monument<br />
with your perfectly sloped nose<br />
and loosed hair, balancing<br />
my body against your side,<br />
guiding my heeled feet back<br />
to your car. You said<br />
you would not partner with me<br />
even though the sound of crickets<br />
swayed between the sweat<br />
of our bodies when you pulled my hair<br />
and pressed hard into me that night.<br />
This might be all I have—<br />
a dream I dream again.<br />
a buckled throat,<br />
eyelashes<br />
wet with soap,<br />
leather gloves in the cabinet.<br />
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