Path
Amy Bouse
Molly Sunderdick
Walls do not listen when occupied
By frames of the past and the present,
The jagged stains rubbed into painted palms
By cracked knuckles.
We find our worst rival provides
A kind glance and an open channel
In comparison to the very places
We decorate with ourselves.
Home places grow and remain,
Maintaining the same face,
But fueling a changed flame,
Clenching their jaw at what they know
Gave them life.
Somewhere between the emptiness
And translation of transition
We discover that blank space prospers
Because it cannot offend us
With our own story.