by Brendan Galvin
You’re months early, and must have
thawed out of the stove wood I brought in
yesterday. But who are you, puzzling
yourself in the dark about me, struggling
through my forearm’s undergrowth?
by Julie T. Anderson
I barely looked up from my books when I heard the news that Jan O’Malley jumped off the roof of our building; I was too busy writing a paper on The Catcher in the Rye. Alice Dougall, the widow in 5C across the hall, was telling my mother all about it in the living room. She said that she saw what she thought was a sack of laundry falling past her window—never did she imagine that what she had actually seen was a person.
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