Riverstones — Allison Grayhurst

Coe Review

Announcing flesh
in the sleepy-loosened
day. A childhood of
bridges, masterpiece aromas
that overlook the playing fields–
one year, two grades and people
once beautiful, now ordinary,
bike turns, riverstones, skipping
on driveways, melting ice over grates

long pleated hair, dark, looking into
competitive eyes. It was the last
year I was there, spending evenings staring
at the gaudy peeling wallpaper or
in the basement crawlspace, space
without any windows, hearing
hockey games, spiders mating, silhouettes
disintegrating. It was the last time
in that car for that car ride, through dull highway hours,
cats in boxes, on laps, children waving, music at half mast,
children waving.

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