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Megan Collins

July 27, 2014

11:11

Consider the source: I even hold my breath at graveyards,
wish on loose lashes, on slipped necklace clasps.
When I stopped praying, it took everything I had to still
be thankful for things: your resistance, for instance,
or that grotesque horizon we once saw reflected in dark water.
The wishes you made were as shadowed as your smile,
which never leans the same way twice. Believe me,
it was all a trick; I even waited for the right light.
With time in my hands, I thought your secrets could be exposed,
but you were closed as a fist, so they never were. Still,
I confess: I wanted all of your wishes to be about me.

I confess I wanted all of your wishes to be about me,
but you were closed as a fist, so they never were. Still,
with time in my hands, I thought your secrets could be exposed.
It was all a trick. I even waited for the right light,
which never leans the same way twice, believe me.
The wishes you made were as shadowed as your smile
or that grotesque horizon we once saw reflected in dark water.
Be thankful for things: your resistance, for instance.
When I stopped praying, it took everything I had to still
wish on loose lashes, on slipped necklace clasps.
Consider the source. I even hold my breath at graveyards.

 

 

 

 

 

Megan Collins received an MFA in Creative Writing from Boston University, where she was a teaching fellow. She currently teaches Creative Writing at the Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts, as well as Literature at Central Connecticut State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Linebreak, Blast Furnace, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Hartskill Review, and Toad.

 

 


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