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You Who Will NeverBy Anna Kelly QuailBellMagazine.com  I still think of you standing in the wings straight-backed in a loose dress, waiting. The air around pungent with your hunger. Sweetheart—clear ghost of my sightline, I mourn you most of all. The last time I touched him, it was your
saline breath that lapped against my ear. Here are our promises back. The blanket. The kindergarten photo where your hair is in your eyes. The day at the dog park when you insist on crab-walking down the pathway and laugh at how upright and dull we are. Oh God. It is painful to recall your throat tensing when he reached for me, so ready to be reeled up from your lifeless seabed. We should never have spoken your name: no, not even into the crease of our pillow. Oh God. For an unmade and unrequested creature, you have a way of remaining. Show me anything else that has wanted itself as much. CommentsComments are closed.
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