Poetry By
Amanda Kimmerly
Published on: 9/16/2011
Blame it on Bad Weather
The sky is falling and I must have swallowed it while walking to the office. Fog has seeped so far down my sinuses, it's draining out my eye cavity-- all I see is gray: gray walls, gray carpet, gray countertops even the blinks in between are a shade of pencil lead but like a good copy-editor, I cross out, carrot top, insert letter here, an i in the typo "Lve" or is it o, I don't know, so I write ea wipe the crust from my eyes, and go.
Published on: 9/16/2011
Bookmarked
She collects petals, all colors and types. Bruised or not, places them in used books at her library job. "Origin of Species" rests flat on a shelf, its edges rough, torn, over analyzed. In this Library of Medicine, students leave their thoughts in margins or between text, pencil-leaded punctuation: underlines, question marks, asterisks. Page seven: scribbled not in pencil but red pen, "God is dead," a confident Nietzsche activist. (...There is only one church near campus) God is Dead. On the next page, etched heavy. God is Dead. And the next. Reading like a cartoon sketch, God is... She flips through, notices an unmarked passage. The epilogue, appearing unread. Its pages, not smudged with ink or ripped, but smooth, delicate. She presses a fresh dandelion across Darwin's sentence: God works miracles through science. The petals streak like a yellow highlighter.
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