Amy Small-McKinney

Outside the window, a red maple.

Safety moves out in the middle of the night.

You worry, a parcel left behind.

Years ago, all that mattered was moving from Olney to Elkins Park Lane.

The Lloyd Wright rooftop pointed toward stars.

Even the needling to eat eat every Friday night.

Pass the potatoes meant silence.

You cannot talk about anger.

More than once, room darkening shades before dark.

Once—two pillows, one knee, a circus act, you were seven, applause.

Manacha was a butcher.  

She was tall, splendid blue eyes.

Manacha was left behind.

We don't deserve to be alive.

You do deserve.

A window still separates you from the world, sometimes.