Tag Archives: Allison Berry Blevins

If This Is Not A Memoir

Consider. A leaf falls from a tree. Does this mark the beginning of descent? I’d prefer to tell this story as fiction: A girl erases her own name from a blackboard, writes her name again. Her room is not windy, … Continue reading

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I Walk Down A Hall Toward The Building Elevator, The Sound Of My Wife and Children Behind A Door At My Back

If I say my wife leaving was a fall from a height of little consequence to the body, except my lungs compressed and faltering in the invisible science of ending, this would be true. Also, this would be a lie. … Continue reading

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Hedge Apples

            Mothers once placed Osage Oranges under their babies’ beds to repel spiders.             Martha Stewart recommends quartering, drying, displaying at Christmas. The old woman tells me: Keep what you love. Place the fruit in every corner of every room. Quarter the … Continue reading

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Erasure

Here is a quiet, a still and humming shush. Words dissolve under my fingers, a tide washing the grains of lost bodies. My hands tremble, smudged with anger. My wet breath swells back and back and back, my retreat etches … Continue reading

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Damned Women

Each morning my friend calls to check on me. I tell this dying woman I want to die. My hair trembles. I tell this dying woman that my children can no longer see my face, that love looks like an … Continue reading

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