Where Did I, I Did Live Melissa Bernal Austin
A place is not a home that does not want you. Whatever life was lived there, whatever pillowcases bloodied, whatever teeth, or burial mounds. At the moment, the garden is untended. This is where we’ve planted our shame. This is where— This is where everything else is choked out. What cannot be used that should be used will always die hard. And where will I be? The truth is that I can only dream the future in still life. I dream in pieces all empty rooms and unembarrassing floors. Here is a cabin in a photo I cut from a magazine I never read. Where is the home for that which died but is not dead?
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