Dear.
by Anne Marie Rooney
Dear.
She opened the door to the room to the house. She meaning I. Our month of slow noddings coming out from under (another).
Small pilgrim in the place where we have been. It is not enough, or a bridge bending back. We move the paper from its entrance. Put the cup back in the cupboard. Repleat our schoolgirls. Move through this—all of this—brightly.
Can I tell the bandage from its maker? I meaning hostess. Owner of a little flap of skin. She touches it till it burns from it. It meaning she cannot say the word (for another).
Anyway, there is paper, and there is some need to fold it. To fold from its quick entropies. Does it approach pigment when it furthers its story out and all the lines go out and the station, and the ending tesseract thusly. Does it even work a question between its white angles. Does it even work.
Evenly, then, she licks the pamphlet. And in the evening smooths it back out. Smoothes its back out. Out meaning I. A month cupping its broadboard. Slowly. And sometimes having-skinned. And where is the mark in the story rebillowing. And there are entrances in these entries yes.
And love.
Anne Marie Rooney is the author of Spitshine (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2012). Her poetry has been featured in the Best New Poets and Best American Poetry anthologies, and recent prose can be found in Sidebrow, Two Serious Ladies, and Contrary. Born and raised in New York City, she currently lives in New Orleans, where she is a teaching artist. She wrote The Buff for The Cupboard Pamphlet.