54
The Inflectionist Review
Kelli Allen Folding the Invitation to Your Wedding A plow waits near my broken flashlight. Both promise a variation of warmth, though what I can expect to carry by pushing under, giving root, by some illumination not yet anchored enough here, on this page asking for response, for a bond of sorts. What can I ask of you? The curve of you a fleshy question mark near such open waters. Why this snuggle into writing when shown the useless tool and the cylinder all broken plastic and glass? Objects meant to signify desire for reciprocity become, instead, talismans for clumsy loss, for wanting more, always more, than I am ready to let bare in the dirt. It’s pale, when it touches my skin, this god-hand of distance, this god-touch of absence.