Katie McCleary and Amanda Wynn ||| Monday, Nov 7 @ 7:30 pm ||| SPC 1719 25th St




Amanda Wynn


the earth shifts

and I am falling

losing hope

grasping onto

crumbling cliffs


the tide washes

all the doubt

away from me

a past I won’t

hold with certainty


fire rages through

all weakness cries

from images of

who lives

and who dies


moving closer

nudging for a touch

reading faces of those

who look too hard

but see enough



everything we

knew as real

and bash them

into jagged glass


the day is shorter

yet I feel no closer

to death

then the earth shifts


Katie McCleary

Thanksgiving is me, eight-years-old and standing on the kitchen chair pulled up to the countertop smooshing my hands in the makings of cold stuffing, and there is my father at my side telling me to dig deep into the croutons, chicken broth, cooked bits of sausage, onion, and celery, saying “mash it up, girl,” and so I stir until my hands are sticky with butter, scented with sage, and excited to eat the feast that will be ready in eight hours for my family of four, who will cozy at the table, each going round and round to say our thanks—me for my cat, Mopsy; my sister for her Teddy Ruxpin; my mother for our health; and my dad for all of us. In three years this family will be no more—my day will be split into two dinners—no longer will I wake up in my father’s house to make the stuffing and soon when he and I drift apart because I am a teenage girl with a grudge in her heart and he is a man with a broken one, there will be nothing to fill the turkey with—just a cavity where lungs once breathed air and a heart pumped life, and without the good stuff inside the bird dries out and soon he, my sister, and I are sitting at a round table in an apartment under a broken hanging lamp, mustering through the holiday with the meat disintegrating between our teeth, somewhere in between rubber and sawdust, making us thirsty for what we had long, long, ago.

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