Poetry

The Pride Before, 2 (215.)

It’ll happen in a field in the middle of a long-sleeping suburb. Fences built in rough three-quarter squares and rectangles to keep what’s owned inside a sort-of box. The lines separate all the boxes into neat spaces.

It’ll happen all throughout some of the boxes, neat on the outside, beat on the inside. Magic button opens a big door to let the monster in. Rumble dies down before the new rumble begins.

It’ll happen in a grocery store in-between one suburb and the next. Goods stacked in lines to dissipate a hex. Bad magic emanates from too many routine-wandering souls. Charred skin and frayed fringes of clothes.

It’ll happen on the way to a drive-thru you drive through for a milkshake. Hands quake, minute tremors of the heart like a hummingbird’s wings beating to meet the sky. Cage came down slow and quiet.

It’ll happen in a friend’s bathroom in the midst of a shindig.

It’ll happen in the middle of the night when the future’s too big.

It’ll happen in the middle, always the middle, betwixt shame and fear.

One day it’ll happen that you’re sick of staying stuck between a mad past and a sad future. Tie up your shoes and your wounds with homemade laces and sutures, and go.

Now’s the time to string together a present for yourself.

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