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Poetry

A Love Story

Victoria Eldridge

May 27

I.

A dilapidated house in the woods, panes onto the

distance, blankly, about to cave in on its own ribs.

There is a woman inside the house and she is

laughing into the creases of her hands, thinking

of how all her favorite names sound like the color

pink. And a man across from the woman, sitting

on the edge of the couch. He is trying to make

himself smile. In the hallway, there is a coat rack

with three hooks. Only two of them are occupied.

Outside, the wind. It howls a pretty tune about loss.

 

II.

There is an unconscious space next to a young man

sitting in a church. The priest is giving the lecture on

what it means to trust while the man holds his own

hand in his lap. Staring through the window, he sees

a rosecolored woman get into a rosecolored car and

drive away onto a rosecolored street. He turns back

to face a man looking down on them. Is it pity? And

another man pacing beneath him, sweating a little,

talking woodpecker words into the mass. There

is only one God, the man says. One. One, one, one.

The boy hears a thrum beneath. Hears, Amen.

 

III.

There is a house getting torn down in the woods next

Tuesday. A whisper walks through it, touching a spare

screw rolling on the floor and every single door frame.

Years from now, there will still be a space in the forest

the exact size and shape of a place someone’s parents

fell out of love. In the distance, leaves rustle with the

breeze. The house grabs onto the forest’s land tightly.

Plants grow up the walls. Birds nest in the rafters.

Their calls make the spider webs in the windows tremble.

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