By Bryce Johle
Over here the walls are backwards,
caffeine is saltier than your fingertips,
and granite, the countertops lean on us
Peace comes in brackets beyond the line,
an eight-ounce Uganda to go
handed off in a steady, straight-haired hand
having nothing on her mind but the milk
and heading home—she would be baffled
if she knew it was predestined
in a dimension and its brother
her ring would wash down the drain, or not,
and in one, she dried off
and in one, she forgot how to think, how to
have childhood friends, step into a suit, a shadow
a pair of someone else’s glasses.
losing our grip on purpose 