by Amy-Catherine Welch
pt 1. (in August)
The rain came down softly on my skin the last time I saw her
All I ever wished for was a cabin in the woods for us to run away together
so I've been looking up flights to Ireland
looking at borders
looking up masks and Hepa filters
holding on to hope like a thread above me swaying
Early mornings make me think of her
what is second person third person anyways
except a device
and a way to remember.
Is it a sin that I just want to abandon my acting career and grow vegetables?
I miss theatre with every fiber of my being.
Maybe I can put on a production of Hamlet, lying under tomatoes and cucumbers
and I can feel the drama in the rain and shout these stories to neighbors
and through screens
I want to dance loudly here.
pt 2. (in October)
I sit in silence
vines grow in cracks
around the bend
Tiny gardens in a concrete jungle
aching to be wild
but confined by a fence built by man
I want love and wind to sweep me away
to live inside the scarecrows my neighbors put up
to see the world through straw
Will it wash away my fears?
The ruins around which we gathered
were smaller than we’d expected.
The photos that
upon a cursory glance
had seemed to express views
from mountain tops
and precarious paths,
had, by generous estimation,
been taken from a stepladder,
or perhaps a milk crate.
What we all came to see,
the central figure
we had thought to be hundreds of feet high
was a stepping
and golden pyramid.
We had all seen it
so often in movies
we could all picture it with our eyes shut.
But what no photo could capture
and what none of us knew to expect,
was the sand.
After we removed our packs
leaving outlines of sweat
on our shoulders and backs,
we kicked off our boots
and peeled off
the thick woolen socks that
would have taken us
up to the precipice
we had planned for,
our toes sank into the silken surface
as into liquid
as we paced around the tiny ruins.
came up to my hip.
It was curved,
slouching off to one side
like melting ice cream.
We all looked to each other
and sweaty shoulders
Had it changed,
or had we all remembered it wrong?
By Laura McCullagh
We are a group of multi-disciplinary writer-types who are committed to collective creation. Writing doesn't happen in a vacuum, it happens at a table.