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This writing was accepted for publication in the 96 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Spiraling” Down in the Dirt (v124) (the July/August 2014 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book What Must be Done (a Down in the Dirt July - Dec. 2014 collection book)		get the 372 page July - Dec. 2014 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Things

Anna Maria Hansen

I’m a keeper:
I cling to things long useless;
pointless;
valueless.
Boots I grew out of years past
a shirt of my mother’s from when she was younger then me
holes in it from before I was born
the smell of age and dust and good memories.
A swimsuit I used to wear
and hang on to as if some day I’ll wear it again
and splash in the sparkling drops of cold lake water
with you.
I find things moth-chewed and feel anger
at these little creatures who fill their stomachs
on the memories of the past.
A pair of sunglasses that were once a set of four

it doesn’t matter any more
still...

I just can’t throw them out
it feels I’d lose even more
without their presence in my closet
in the little box I wanted to give you

and never had the chance.
A doll I saved five times
her lash-less eyes blink blindly at me
as if she denies my foolish loyalty.
A poster of horses so badly torn;
even so, the spirit of their wildness
still catches me and leaves me breathless in their
hot, fragrant dust.
The dust that lines our photograph
seated on the old porch steps
with that whole-heart smile splitting your face
and the look that tells me you never saw it coming.
Neither did I.
Why?
A long, leafy plant that dies
and yet always comes back.
More faithful than you;
a potted palm plant.
The words you wrote on the beam that supports my bed
simple, three words
was it just in my head?
In your head?
They are still there; silent words.
Unerased.
A sketch that I made
with your name and mine
the words all around it seem to entwine
you and me; what we couldn’t be
I cannot destroy it
it was truth
it is gone
it was me.
Not anymore.
The things I keep are nothing more
than what I was, or could have been,
thought was so, I didn’t know.
Someday they will be nothing more
than things
I can’t let go.

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