fall 2015 / Poetry 2015 / Uncategorized / Volume 46

Blank—Gil Zamora

“I’m afraid that I can’t,” he says.

He looks at his reflection in the window while I am talking. Snow falls inside of

him.

Distracted by the spectacle of ice in the air, he pretends to be conducting a dance of

falling.

I want to say I know.

Or

I want to say you can.

Instead,

I look at my tie. The crimson and swirls of other names for red

break the chest of my sky

blue shirt. I thought—I  knew what that meant.

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