Whither Thou Goest
Whither thou goest
I will go, too, or else I’ll
try, sort of—talk of
quitting everything, packing a bag,
booking a flight, alighting in
your city—embrace! we’re here—
then what?
My student debt will come, too, and
crowd the bed. You say you’ll sell your
horse to help with rent, but of course
when you go to the barn and see
that face, you just—
well, when you see my face…
you don’t quite finish your thought—
But none of this happened.
I’m all talk. You’re all
implore. I’m very maybe.
You’re constantly wish. We’re both hope.
We’re all want,
and, in the end, isn’t that
as close as it gets?
view from the hill on berke ct
or
when i become convinced i have contracted a terminal disease
if you get there in time
to see yellow stretch out and then curl its fingers
in the one wooly patch of trees between those two hills,
it means you walked there in the dark.
if you wake up and are uncertain
(if the digital dashes of the numbers are unclear)
take a shower and put your clothes on anyway.
there are a lot of dots
that look like ink stains or holes
puncturing the backdrop
or staining the screen
and if you don't think hard enough
you forget it's supposed to be glorious and all
at all.
if you stop without stoplike punctuation
you can't be sure whether you're really even done
(not to mention
the rest)
Molly Guinn Bradley is a writer and editor living in New York City. Her work has appeared on The Toast, The Equals Record, Splitsider, and Defenestration Mag. She enjoys long walks along the dirty, dirty Hudson.