Jun 18, 2013

Toward You

Written by Corinna Rosendahl

Read by Henry Finch

While you were away, I walked along a path
cut short by a sharp, thorny bush. Several
swollen red berries set back in the curved branches
as if into eye sockets. The red-eyed creature it became
was intertwined and tangled with itself, but I could still see
the houses behind it on the hill. From that distance, the houses
were small enough to fit only parts of my body: an eye
or the tip of a cheek bone. I thought back to when I wished I could climb
into that blue, wooden dollhouse I had, wanting to live
that other life. Desiring to walk up those small steps
to the bedroom upstairs, to slip the length of myself
between those tiny floral sheets. I would reach my little girl bones
in through the back of the house, held on with hinges,
spreading the winged doors wide open like a body cut
and torn back for me. If you were here
I would enter you now—my grown bones
making their way toward you,
my whole body could fit into you.

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