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If This Were Just About Hate
by: Lisa Marie Brodsky
She knows it in her room.
She knows I’m squeezing the mountains
with my bare hands,
that I’m alone in the woods: awake,
alert as an owl.
If this were just about hate I could sleep now.
I could lay down in one weary gesture
and curl into a sandbag, heavy with purpose and
discarded vengeance.
But this is more than hate, this is
love unrequited, love turned
origami, a question turned into
an answer walking away.
She knows it in her room.
I have sprawled it across her walls in
crayon and hell-fire lipstick:
There is a hallway that leads to me.
There are footsteps you used to take.
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