March 18, 2026
grace (ge) gilbert
When I try to explain, I say, immature eggs
are glued to my walls. And I think of my
lake, sitting next to it, the thought of
wading into the water to become shiny
again. A stone in the sidewalk that looks
like a woman’s painted fingernail. A swell
of testosterone. When the roses start
to harden, they look face down, as if
they are retreating. My dark, bleeding
hallway, its half-toppled ionic columns. I
say, there was once something here. But I don’t
know what it was.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published weekly by Glass Poetry Press.
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