We dragged ourselves up with you in our arms; your feet tendrils, your eyes masked in the pattern of glass. We broke you. You broke us.
Your child will only know the other father and our days will move with arms and hands. Where are you now? When will we know?
The only second.
The fourth acting like it's third.
There's a period of ending and a space between before the next starts.
Your punctuation moved us.
This must end.
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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