- it’s pasha on the footbridge to the cemetery
- we see him through the leaves and branches
- but can’t reach him, can’t call to him
- because he thinks nobody is watching he takes out a picture from the inside fold of his worn-out wallet
- he tears it in two then fours then sixteens
- until his thumbs are too big to grip to further rip
- he drops it all from his palm onto the field below him and turns before watching the papers spiral forever, not falling
- we are the ones to stay and stare. we don’t leave until each piece has landed on the ground.
- at home that weekend we watch pasha’s eyes
- for hints of feeling
- but he looks the same as always.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Pasha we love you are you ok
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