by Phoebe Anthus
The school yard, which one moment last,
buzzed with a reckless charm,
now silenced almost to breath,
in its turn of sudden brokenness.
whispered to your profiled face,
turned three-quarters away.
through my corner-bitten lip,
as that February strand wisps away,
bone cold, all the things
I could’ve been to you,
seventy times seven and counting.
Your small stacked toes,
one black boot at reflex angles to the other,
underscore “wasted” and “moments”
as if I could forget what had been there.
As if things are ever that simple.
Phoebe Anthus is a stubborn artist with her head not so far into the clouds that she cannot notice the solid, sensible things as well.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy