Love a good ellipsis
1 Minute Read Time
It is nearly true: I am learning to love
the ellipsis like a wait
for a kiss as you stir-fry dinner,
little uptick at your lips
because you know. You know
I wait impatiently, genetically,
my mother’s eyes, blue
fishbowls, pop, she is certain
she can’t breathe if I delay
a confirmation of ease: are we well?
Who can tell . . . ? Oh open-ended
sentence, oh or, oh I left
the door ajar and spring’s air
stings our long-covered skin. Let it:
not knowing’s electric weather,
not yet even better.
In this blown-open room,
the miniscule radiates, holds
space to elide a gaze, go languid
on my sitting stool, watch the deft
flick of your wrist on knife
as you separate, set aside . . .
With so many ways
to make or break a moment,
I’m left with the sense,
one ankle dangled over the edge,
that any second now, one of us might—
Read more from Issue 19.2.
