Holly had been standing in the Time Out corner for five minutes now, and her feet were starting to hurt. She could have sat down. There was a stool for that. But sitting down seemed like something ... [+]
Originally published in Headline Poetry and Presse, 2020
The length of my dog's leash. Meeting another, twelve feet between wary humans, dogs sniff nose to nose. Longing. How tall my father was, or so he said, but you couldn't always trust everything he said. Ask Mom. The width of a cell in San Quentin Prison, not counting men stacked in bunks, stale air, no phone call. No defense. The distance between two not-yet-lovers, masked strangers, no touch but eyes, no hands, no mouths. Alone together. The depth of the average grave, except in genocides, war, and pandemics like this one when you have to share. Don't die. The width of my queen