Aftermath When the jar of pasta sauce hit linoleum floor, it reminded her of windshield with it’s splintered hands ripping through skin. When the blood of tomatoes flashed across her cupboards, it reminded her of earth, of desert floor reaching inside what was meant to be out. She wiped up pulp with a bathroom towel. There were stones left in between her teeth asking: where to put this mess? She felt bits of glass twisting in her left hand like a key in a door that does not open. The scar looked like a lifeline of too many children. A phone rang. She wondered if there was any reason to fill air with verbs where there was only room for scrap metal. “Do words penetrate wind?” She would ask if she knew no one would respond, if she was positive that time moved backward and that she could cook a simple pasta dish without freeways slicing through her kitchen, without this howling at her feet.
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Abigail Templeton-Greene
SIXFOLD POETRY SUMMER 2013