The Inflectionist Review
Kelli Allen Edging Our Wall, Untying There is pressure between my hand and the reaching. We ask longing to become a city for us, but what do we say when the windows blow inward instead of out and the streets flood again and again? If I am the length of this want, and you are the width of some container as we build up and out, how can we hope to plant grass near the temple which will be, of course, the center of it all? I have a bag attached to one wrist and blueprints tight in a scroll attached to the other. Leaving either on the road means that we are finished. There are tourists afoot and we are drenched in something like snow. This may be a diagnosis I am offering. It may be a solution for the obvious anxiety of bending our faces down, teeth spaced to let the wind come in, come in.