1 poem

August Thompson-Luce

Breck School

Stucco

The house had old and cobwebby curtains,
and smelled like it. They blocked the light completely,
but when they were pulled back the light from over the yard flowed in,
filling the room with glints of old glasses and a green glow from a bottle on the table.
Your mother told you to open the windows,
and you did. It was to air out the house, she said, but
part of you felt like to do so, to replace that old, still air, was to forget,
that the air full of bright dust should remain entombed forever to slowly mold to black.
There were pressed flowers between the pages,
the book’s title obscured by gray, and as you opened it
the dry colors fell out and drifted quickly to your feet. A petunia,
Brittle, but not gray. As you picked it up a splinter of the floor came with it. It’s gone now.