Anna Leahy
My father knew what to do / when two lines converge: // it’s about angles adding up. / No wonder I try to bevel // the world’s corners. I’m looking /
for his pencil marks on the trim // that hides the ragged edges of my life. / Each thin strip of lumber has its own // coniferous memory. To pine /
is to yearn. You knew that’s where // I had to go with this line of thinking / because being led by the pattern of my thoughts // is its own kind of punishment / I’m getting used to. There’s only so much // that quarter round can frame. / That thin wisp of glass in my eye // had fallen from a ceiling we’d made. / My father cried once when he regretted // calling me lazy. By then, we were both more than tired / with little time to undo anything // and, thankfully, little left that needed to be undone. / We were accumulating a vanishing point // where we could find each other on the horizon. / To see it now, I need only one eye // and the memory of our mitering.


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