The Beginning
The beginning is just beginning
to color. The edges turn golden
brown. I feel myself ripening in
the little room with the curtains.
Outside, at the rickety table,
the air becomes thinner, cooler.
Knowing and not knowing—both
are devastating effects of the way
we choose to live.
At the beach, the kindly
uncle says to the shivering child,
“We’re gonna warm you up
like toast on butter.” The tulips at the
tulip garden have names like “Secret
Perfume” and “Red Magic.”
There is a sound of geese flying
overhead and grandpa says,
“Oh. Change of seasons.” I scrunch
my knees up to my chest and
balance my laptop there.
Outside, the rickety table. The sound
of cicadas droning. The milkman
is never late. In tracing the edges of my face,
I find that everything is always in flux.
On the other hand, the sense of
knowing is devastating.
Winter in Fox Point
I am in my slushy city
flaunting my dexterity
on ice for people in cars
who don’t care.
My ass looks good
in these pants I bought
from a girl who doesn’t like me.
My arms are tired
from carrying this bleach
to take care of
the mildew above my bed.
I am waiting for two packages.
One is a love letter from a boy
who I dumped two weeks ago.
The other is an indescribably bad outfit
I bought to take pictures in.
Nothing is not worth a description
but my ears are cold and
there is a strange smell and
I want to make this tomato sauce
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Jane Freiman is a writer, oral historian, and archives practitioner based in Cambridge, MA. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in the Brooklyn Rail, The College Hill Independent, Clerestory Journal of the Arts, and Syntax Magazine.