Published in Juste Milieu, Issue No. 8 (Pop Art), 2019


I was a faith hunter, my eyes wrapped in wool.

I would stand, third grade height and smaller mind,

at the edge of your words with a sharp, crooked wisp of a stick,

burned white manzanita branch,

looking to spear what syllables best pleased me.

Somewhere in those childish lies there was a better lie,

a pretty lie,

something dressed up in big adjectives and pretty colors.

fairy tale. folklore. myth.

Those I took with me.

Thinking you’d be by early on those pewter-colored Sunday mornings,

two fistfuls of joy you’d carry with you,

eager to see my smiling face

before it faded into reason.

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