i think i remember a reckless place.
clover under our shoes, the gentle notes of a violin
strung from the trees like fairy lights.
remind medoes reality require one truth,
or many?
i think i was out of breath. i think
i could smell salt, and empty shelves,
fresh painti was helping you move out,
yes, your mementos encased in cardboard.
i remember a cornfield. no. a puddle.
ankle-deep in slush, i watched the other boys
crawl from their snow angels, their boots
carving furrows into the lightness.
around me, a glass door. the shriek of an illusion breaking.


i am sorry for all the bugs i have killed. i am sorry for how resolutely i kissed your hands. i am sorry for how many knives i invent, how many bullets i have swallowed.
the violin sleeps in the closet
of my childhood bedroom.
i found the bow strung through the window,
the backdrop singed of all its light


Jess(i)e Marino is a queer, autistic poet who writes and studies at Kenyon College. They are published in The Full Spectrum, Barton College’s Crucible, and Cicada, among others. They enjoy flowers, tea, and other soft things. As always, they are still learning.


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