Approximately Market Street
How the cats, lying on windowsills,
watched intently dawn drooping
over rooftops, faces blowing down the street,
and seemed quite captivated.
How sunlight sifted through thrifted
lace curtains in the morning, with your syringe,
on the table, radiant. How the old newspaper shop,
wedged between office buildings,
looked and smelled, before it was ash.
How you would come home at the end
of the day and try to wring the anxiety
out of your face.
How I often couldn’t sleep so we talk and talk,
gracefully sidestepping what hung and swung
from the ceiling–dangling meat in a butchery–
with the solid starry sky thrust against the window.
I remember small things, the rest tends to drift
away with time, like charred bits of
paper swirling above a fire.
I remember small things, collected and
carried around, of which my hands are full
and I’m not ready to put down.
Evan Antonakes is a junior anthropology major from Ipswich, Massachusetts. He enjoys nectarines, night biking, collecting sea glass, and some other things. You can usually find him along the back windows in commons.