The White Letter

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by Katie Przybylski

http://www.flickr.com /photos/citrusfaire/

The knob is turned by a boy
half the height of the door.

His skin past pale, and ghostlike.
His face somehow far from a child’s.
And a man is here also…

by Katie Przybylski

 


 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/citrusfaire/

 

The knob is turned by a boy

half the height of the door.

His skin past pale, and ghostlike.
His face somehow far from a child’s.
And a man is here also,
standing in a corner from another time.
He’s thin. He looks like he’s made up of clothes.

The green in this mahogany room.

As if this were a tree’s angled and polished insides.

Its secreted stomach: bright, and frightened, domestic.

Like a powder, the white letter shines.

“When we only relied on natural light,
we would sleep when the sun went,”
the man says in your grandfather’s voice, but stronger.

“We would wake in the middle of the night.

Two hours in bed, with your eyes, and no light.”
The air around you anything.

In your hands, this is what the white letter feels like.

Inside, there is something to do with guilt, but larger.

There is something close to what beauty smells like.

But how can you stand with it now in your hands?
Your eyes candle flame, your legs asking to evolve into vines.

How can you wait patiently while all the things here
decide if they are demons?

 

 

 

Read Blood’s Time, also by Przybylski.

 

Katie Przybylski (shuh-bil-skee, ha!) hails from Michigan, where she grew up among many automobiles and squirrels. She currently writes and tutors in New York. Her work has appeared in Blood Lotus, Barrier Islands Review, Xenith, Correspondence, and Way of the Word. She wishes you well.

 

 

 

by & filed under Arts & Music, Litra'ture & Poetry.