Tag Archives: Laurie Byro

Pocket Watch

There is a limit to being needed. I’ve been slipped in and out of a waistcoat, a lover in honeymoon sheets, only reliable if my tip is fondled. I am important only if I function in the tick-tock beat of … Continue reading

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Ashes

I thought that birds were Gods, small like me— but confident in what they knew they could do. I never wanted to be a dusty home-cawing rook. You asked me once which one I could become. You had in mind … Continue reading

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Why I’m Not a Monk

I like to talk. I contemplate while I talk and people say I sleep-talk. I like the appealing collar, the lace around the sleeve. I love epaulets. I like the little details. Once, while I was about to climax (in … Continue reading

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Cinders

While growing summer days, I picked the roundest pumpkins, just in case, and I begged the cat not to chew the black and tan piebalds since they make the swiftest horses. Still the rose bush that pricked my finger sent … Continue reading

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The Fruit of the Dead

The only story I ever believed in was my own. The only disguise I took was an old hag, crone-breathed and foul, and now it has abducted me. When I leave my gowns and veils I turn into what I … Continue reading

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