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you are holding a memory
and your hands begin
to lose their solidity
soft like clay
By Bridget on 01.02.2020
The red dirt of the Earth stuck to her shoes. She grinned, more than pleased with herself for being here.
By Bridget Grace on 01.03.2020
The year stretches out,
my hands red from trying to mold
its granular form.
It always spins out.
If clay isn’t centered on a wheel,
it breaks orbit, the collateral
its entire shape.
I keep throwing lopsided bowls
of last year – broken cups of the year before,
and they’ll hold nothing.
They’ll never hold anything
but memory, dents and fingerprints
that no one wants to touch.
By Pandatry on 01.03.2020
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.