Survival
We broke things. Glasses, a lead crystal vase,
the ceramic chicken painted à la portuguaise.It was the longest, hardest winter in a decade.
Snow against the windows, sealing us inside.I liked that part of it, sitting by the fire with a book
until the lines began to blur and smear to black,like black behind a dream you know you'll wake from.
I liked waking there alone, the chair a solid frameI sat inside like a portrait, pretending to be a portrait
when he came by, holding my breath, eyes staring straightbeyond him. Your mother's disappeared again,
he'd call to my daughter, who'd come near, feigna search for me. Some people need to escape,
she'd say, and wave her hand, and turn away.--- Lynne Knight
The Persistence of Longing
©2016 Terrapin Books