An Afternoon :  Kristen Orser

I slept in a taffeta dress to see a May mornings. On the swings I admitted to dreams no better than days. I could not picture the inside of myself, referred to myself in third person, which means I couldn't make a perfect verse or keep a thought from sliding down the back of my throat.

I was using the wrong dictionary, so most ideas couldn't get past my tongue. I had to hang all my questions on the clothesline and pinch them with clothespins until they screamed, gave up their insistences.

This is the same afternoon I met you and started looking for better adjectives.

There were few clouds when I took you between my fingers and squeezed out the parts I loved. I couldn't keep you in the orchard because there might be a thunderstorm. I potted what was left of you, kept you in the garden nearest my bedroom window and heard the echo of an echo I thought was you asking me to open the blinds.

Then there was nothing for me to do but lick the paintings in the house.
 

Kristen Orser is an MFA candidate at Columbia College Chicago and an editor of Columbia Poetry Review. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Redactions, After Hours, womb, The Sylvan Echo, kaleidowhirl, babel, and The Trident.