Carolyn Guinzio

V was alone. This matters because you are, too. From the bed
of thought, memory spikes. V in a white swimsuit and a green
and white nylon and aluminum chaise in the sun, because sun
eases the patches, and someone is watching her. When you feel
a hand on your skin and you're alone. The shadow in the door-
way moves forward. A white swimsuit disintegrates into charcoal
gray. The shadow of a man over the body of a girl, and V
sits up in the middle of the bed. At first it is difficult to see,
because some people shine so brightly. To grow old is to give
your eyes time to adjust to the dark. V sits up in the chaise,
her skin against the sheet, the sheet slipping off like a hand.


V wants some aspect of the self to linger in the room
after she leaves. She feels sorry for inanimate things,
imagining them boxed or buried in the rain. She cannot
release them from their obligation. She felt something
crawling on her in her sleep, a centipede. She turned
two pages when she meant to turn one. She dreamed
she was dipping a sieve into the lowest part of the creek,
the Little Calumet, where bottle caps and river rocks
are one, and she heard voices in the creek. Sometimes,
it rises into the streets and, awake, that is everything
V knows of the creek. It is everything she knows of voices.

Carolyn Guinzio is the author of six collections, most recently How Much Of What Falls Will Be Left When It Gets To The Ground? (Tolsun Books, 2018) and Ozark Crows (Spuyten-Duyvil, 2018). Her website is