Читать книгу The Quarantine Review, Issue 4 - Группа авторов - Страница 9

I am occupied by the space that edges into the pandemic places between my ribs, and by the structure of a house that feels like a terrarium without healthy plants inside. I am occupied by the memory of the days that came before, and of cups of peppermint tea at a local coffee shop on Minto Street that let me look out at Stompin’ Tom, all metal and sculpted. I am occupied by the hours I whiled away before time stretched itself out like pull taffy, without knowing that they were even close to precious. I am occupied by the time I lost, an hourglass upended, being too careful or certain in my steps, when perhaps I ought to have been braver. I am occupied by “what might have been” while I try to convince myself that “what will be’” is something I can sculpt out of words, clay, or the leftover fall leaves that gather against the fence under this May night’s bright snow.