d e l l a w a t s o n |
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comfort, your other name
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it was summer, after all, and we knew relief to be fleeting. the metal door propped open, the cardboard boxes of produce, and the steady stream of cold air. give me your hand. give me your pulse. know that the things you left in my room will gradually, quietly, become mine. i will not remember everything you said. and all the remembered words will be used out of context in a conversation i keep having and re-having. it was a historic building. we climbed staircases because we believed the top to be something we wanted. and sure enough, you could see everything up there, and i could not believe how colorful everything was. don’t you see? i had plans. bring me the tape measure, i’ll show you. you made it this far, and i have promised to make up the rest. there must be a way to describe it. |
octopus,
cat’s-paw: (draft, awaiting the stave --d) |
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DELLA WATSON’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Limestone, Make, The Hat, Denver Quarterly, eye~rhyme, and word for / word. |