Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue Two

Jessica Patapoff


She still wears his watch — face shattered, clasp refusing to close while she cleans house and carefully arranges eight years of photographs. Vases of flowers line the shelves, grief running wild in her living room, as she smooths her hair with chewed finger nails, tugging on the falling waist band of her jeans. Silence — heavy on our tongues is lugged from room to empty room as she stares out the balcony window, rubs her foot across their dog never breaking her line of vision into early winter skies, the wispy clouds stalled over head and a row of bending palms tipping their limbs toward the ground.