Tag Archives: Gabrielle Freeman

Not for You

Not your smile, turn of phrase, of cheek. Not I love you. Not I. No hands, no dangerous charm. No teeth, no tongue, no things we long for. Not the things you kept. No risk. No pull, no push. No … Continue reading

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Confession

I stole your camera, took your spent film to Walgreens for development. Paid 24 dollars to have 4X6 glossies of your once- in-a-lifetime trip to Mexico, your kids’ birthday party, your close-ups of lichen and moss. I spread them out … Continue reading

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Wanted

Time to squander, enough to study owls in their nightly hunt, eyes wide, talons flashing, scooping cicadas and mice from purpling grass, leaving neat packages of hair and bone. How, like the owl, you watched me, dared me frolic for … Continue reading

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You are Here

A smell like brown draws me from the window where I write and wander. I suppose it scorches, the soup, skidding the bottom of the pan with char. I’ll clean it later. Once, a missing pane offered us bricks and … Continue reading

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Want

The portable turntable still plays. Just so you know. I got it out last night, sat on the deck with a stack of our records, the bottle of good scotch we were saving. The needle still works, but the speed … Continue reading

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Buried Things

It’s not that I’m leery of you, your easy truths, your blue eyes clear as Pensacola surf; it’s just your deft fingers digging sand fleas, chasing down their backwards scurry, so efficient. In your hands, buried metal sings out electronic … Continue reading

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