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February 2, 2016 Poetry

Real Winter

Lucy Tiven

Real Winter photo

I sent E a postcard from the museum

in Barcelona  that said  I hate Cubism. Our safe word

was Picasso. Some days I forget to leave my body and go back

to compulsive cleaning. Watching El Niño pass over


the Scientology Centre now. The rose lasts longer than

the candle, its descent out of certainty crude

and free of debris. The last time I came home

my father had made bumper stickers to promote

his business and put them on the Subaru

with his name & website. I’ve never seen that before.


No one ever told me that your hands retain more water

in certain parts of the world. I keep the rings I bought

in Nashville and Prague in a Kiehl’s box with post-its.

The first time I took an Adderall I fell in love and was in love

for four years. Two of them he loved me too and the others

I was alone in it, waiting to be asked to dance.


I miss that more. I am trying to go back now.

Geese over the lake at the end of an acid trip.

The water looked like a screensaver. Nearby,

Professors walked dogs. Was I happy

doesn’t seem the right question anymore.    

I never stopped doing it. Collecting distance.


Driving back and forth from the Columbus airport.

Watching deer cut through dry woods while E slept  

moving numbly towards the next thing. All of it, equally

charming  when I remember it. Ohio, Real Winter. Me,

him pacing back and forth on the other side of a fire.  

image: Carabella Sands