Parthenon West Review

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Katherine Hastings

Any Wound


I’m sitting on a park bench, wild
blackberries weighing to the ground,

each bloodied anchor sweet in the rotting
sun. The moon bloats the blue sky, hungry

for this vacancy to fill, this howitzer shell of a day
without you, the history of us undone.

To the north the first star emits an odor of rusting
ploughs and a bird sings a song quickly

forgotten and my toe digs in the ground searching
for every lost minutes. My single love. This is where

age comes in handy. The end of black-and-white
thinking. The knowing we’ll stumble back again,

this day a shadow gobbled by a horde of unfinished
dreams making themselves as real as my desire

to fly backwards. Sometimes we laugh
when we make love. Remember?



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