On a Sunday

I’m falling in love
with the

sound that the fan makes
in the doorway.

What kind of woman am I?
The shoes fit,

the cobbler bangs nails
through leather
into the four and a half
inch heel. If it breaks again,

I don’t know what to tell you.

I miss the closeness
of denim,
the smell of hunt.

I pray

in a plain voice
tell God I’m scared
of being forgotten,

of never being seen.
Delancey refuses to take me
seriously. I ride bare foot

because I like the metal
marks it makes.
They feel like memory.

I think I’m ready

to start wearing clothes
that fit. My closet is bulging
with almosts and sort of’s.

I want

to not want,
but it feels
like memory.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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