“Fast Sunday”
In the shadow of the hospital, he cradles a box of Triscuits to his chest — tenderly, like a more delicate load. I joke about the familiar gesture, then when my empty arms return home, I find I am craving pears: sweet weight I’ve been allergic to for years. I wash myself of the scent of him, of the garlic squares, of the hospital’s glare. Only the imagined fruit lingers. Only the loneliness of a forgotten taste, the scent of oily soft skin, a weight in the middle of it all I am not woman enough to bear. Alixa Brobbey […]
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