A Visitation

a timid knock
on the worn wooden door

the knob is rusted
the hinges un-oiled

yet I press my ear against
the rough grain and hope
for a stirring



I, who have known you,
now only meet a stranger
who pulls layers over the child
trying her feet in shoes overlarge.

A bitter essence has been mixed in,
stirred and absorbed into her flesh.

Her eyes and touch hold
a sliver of ice, a dagger
poorly concealed — for me.

[Fiction] Dear Josephine

Dear Josephine,

Today we walked in the woods together, the ax hefted on my shoulder and the gun on yours. It was bright early and the snowfall was fresh, crunching under our boots. Our breaths came out thick and white, mingled together and disappeared up into the sky.


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