One Poem by Allyson Erwin

MEAN TIME

Remembering magic markers
in hermetic
wood-paneled rooms, in
a playroom haloed
in bleached
shark jaws,
and how we
invented constellations
in primary, old-fashioned
colors,
connecting the dots
between dalmatian spots.


They said that nostalgia for
one’s childhood could be an
expression
of unrecognized
anger and
I put my hand to my hand in the
mirror and I remember how I
remember how
small it is and how
the songs we used to sing
are advent
of something used,
of apologies
through the door.


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