by Amy-Catherine Welch pt 1. (in August)The rain came down softly on my skin the last time I saw her a metaphor 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 you... 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?
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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 and documentaries 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. The pyramid in reality came up to my hip. It was curved, slouching off to one side like melting ice cream. We all looked to each other dusty toes and sweaty shoulders wondering: Had it changed, or had we all remembered it wrong? By Laura McCullagh |
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