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By Holly Mason From Issue No. 2

All I can think of is one thing, so I won’t write about it.

But how about the corner of this room, cobwebbed and shadowed. How about the eggshell blue nightstand, the mustard-yellow lamp. How about the mold on the cream cheese. How about the night sky, the ideal moon. How about that time in New York, bartering cigarettes from the Swedish girls on the rooftop overlooking a city alive. How about all the shades of pink this time of year. How about the red mites in the bricks by the mail box, the junk mail. How about the one night stand the night before Thanksgiving. How about the soap overflowing the dishwasher. How about the friend writing a poem. How about this sound, this silence. How about the tattoo on her arm. How about the tear in my navy sweater, the loose button on my pants. How about the song, the way he sings Hallelujah. How about that time riding horses in Tennessee. How about the watercolors, the canvas. How about the storm that stole the power, the lines buzzing like bees behind the house. About missing my mother’s voice.

About Holly Mason More From Issue No. 2