GFT Press  A Philanthropic Literary And Art Press  

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Annie Blake

 

It's Almost Over

 

I’m just going to pretend I’m not here—it’s so much easier

when the mind unlatches itself. The warm juice of the epidural warms me 

like a loving mother. Then the heart shuts 

like a mouth under water and there is no 

body. I am not at the doctor’s anymore, I am not 


waiting for him to come back—I am on the sand—it is easy for the sun to slip 

into the dark roots of the sea. The world I see with my eyes are pictures 

that don’t have to merge into each other, that don’t turn into a symbiotic

mist. I am young again and I am not afraid of the sun burning 

my skin. The sun is here and I am a million years old. The car is parked 


on the sand and I have surfed for hours. It is almost night 

time and I have all the waves to myself. When the wave pulls me down, 

it plays with my hair and my leg rope stays securely attached 

like an umbilical cord. I have seen the dissolution 

of a whole day. Or maybe it’s already been a life.

 

 

Another Winter

 

The train that pulls off from the station 

where I grew up—how it groans to force 

locomotion. My mom and dad live in the next 

suburb and our life together is already over

even though none of us are really dead.

This skinless wind in January, just after

my dad’s birthday, these birthdays that pass and pass—


I am old enough to understand that this monotony will also end.

The kids have gone back to school and the men become busy 

at work. I am walking in my old boots and I am grateful my kids are too 

young to realize they are no longer fashionable. The train has left 

for the city and I am still here and the wind still blows incoherently.  

In the end nothing can prepare you for loneliness

even when you are genetically predisposed to it.