Written by Jackie Braje
At times and away from I
litter my little words along the horizontal
like crumbs a dumb distance.
Away from is how moss extends from
oak. Sidewalks of childhood and women
breaching them. They walk away from
and back again. Everything I say now
is away from them. My idealism
concerns them in that it moves from .
I already exist. This, a child’s predicament;
some pristine thing opposite its dusty
origin. Conditions of this fabulous
conflict require walking. Away from
a white dress waits its coffee stain
runneth over. Everything remains to be
constructed before arriving.
I went away from, I’m sorry .
Even sorry is a way of getting away from.
In language is a full range one can walk across ;
I listen and I’m carried away from.
Grew up in a house built over a grand collage.
Furniture legs and stationary things
push away from . When handing, say, a rose
to someone extend it away from.
I’d never label a form as feminine
but if I did plural would be its shape. The rose
leaves one hand to join another; salt
takes with pleasure when waves away from.