the wounded cyclicality of girlhood keeps time in
this infinite space where I can still feel the plot armor
of summer, can still feel her eye on forever-11 me
as I plunk along at the untuned piano, the sway of
her freckled foot, yellow anklet. Even now, the light
is blocked out by her bony shoulder so I can pretend
to read the sheet music with pursed lips. We cast our
commonplace shadows amid the clutter and clatter.
Always the smell of hair detangler and birthday candles.
About the Creator
Erin Latham Shea
Co-Founder and EIC of Housebound Magazine
Assistant Poetry Editor at Wishbone Words
Managing Editor at The Roch Society
Instagram: @somebookishrambles
Bluesky: @elshea.bsky.social
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.