By Edward Sage
Lid against lid in the blink
of an eye; lashes, like combs,
dove-tailing; and the spoon
painting a red shadow—
she’s not old, not at all—
she’s got steady aim; not a lick
of target panic, no need to
limber up, her entire childhood:
a dress rehearsal—
and in a flash the young throat
cleared; the young eyes angry
little dogs; puffy pink lips; show
it to them, she whispers: the fragments,
little by little.
Edward Sage is a writer, teacher, and activist from Portland, Oregon. His work has been published in ZYZZYVA, The Portland Review, Plainsongs, Ponder Review, and elsewhere. His newest adventure is teaching a workshop at The Attic Institute on how we can practice “metabolizing our grief” through writing. Ed lives with his partner, Kate, and their two children, Oliver and Lillian.