Fragments of a list and then thoughts on that list
by Anna Grace Wenger
Two boys wrapped around each other to fit under
one very small umbrella, my cocoa burns through my paper cup,
the damp dirt smells like the end of the threads of a gossamer summer.
Asking about songs that haven’t been played in a year and a half,
exclusively engaging in passive voice and getting marks off of the first paper
of the academic year. The Smiths play over the radio in the bagel shop,
reminding me of the last time I heard the song, staring at a painting
with tears dropping silently on my open notebook. The ink is still smeared.
I would put this moment in a snow globe, let it infinitely watch
from some side table I found on the side of a road. I’ll watch back,
burning a candle that almost smells like that same wet earth if I squint.
Even the memory is meant to fade, to inevitably become far more romantic
the second I think about it again, if I even do. Perhaps this one will only blur,
those boys will stay dry, and my writing will finally use the active voice,
and then all will be well in the forgotten hypothetical of a snow globe.