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By Angelica Anousis

Shadow of My Body

The shadow of my body

Is the adherent

of many forms of me.

Sitting upright, it hides beneath,

Walking, it stretches out,

bouncing quickly forward or backward,

depending on the light.

Like the little dog beside its big protector,

Loyal, it hangs close and registers it all.

But, in any case, my shadow is not alone.

Shadow friends abound.

No telling how many objects,

table legs, doors, books, phones,

cars, trees, indoors and out,

whose species of shadows seek to connect.

Conjoining, crossing, kissing,

secretly, almost quickly,

Taking advantage of their stint together.

Before it is time to go.


Snow Day
A blanket of snow covers the streets, 
And for a moment of time, the world is neat.
For, the instances you spend watching the soft snow descend, are sweet.

Now the crisp snow turns to brown slush, revealing the concrete.
But, something else has been wreaked.

As cars swarm the highways, cramming towards their holiday stay, 
Not every car can stay in array.

An abrupt slip, 
                 a sudden 360 spin, 
The once luscious snow spiraling around--                           
Until the driver finds their saucer eyes meeting the bark of a tree through shattered glass.
New flakes fluttering down, and settling into the glass fractures.




Look for Something More
I drift in, the window catching my eyes,
I brush my hand along the never-ending 
fabrics of unique, worn clothes. 
Every so often, a hanger pokes out and 
a dangling shirt calls out to me, 
“Pick me, pick me, I'm different from the rest!”

As the stiff, musky aroma fills my nose,
my eyes dart around, 
looking at the next item.

Stacks upon stacks of messily placed,
mismatched pots and plates, 
shabby shoes with frayed laces, 
next to boots and fancy sandals, 
tossed carelessly on metal shelves. 
Old discolored wooden frames lay on top of each other, 
all leaning on a torn maroon leather 1980s briefcase. 
Beyond this, a family of ceramics stands proud.  
I find an old teapot with a chip in its spout, so that when you pour tea, 
it splatters everywhere but your cup.  
I smirked wondering who would find a use in that.  
Somehow it is because of this, that all these things belong here, 
a nod to the lineage of things people used once, twice, or perhaps never.   

With my peripherals, I follow a man in a plaid button up, 
his hands dry and dusty, 
gravitating towards those wooden frames, 
stockpiling them around his forearms.  

I reprimand myself.
Why didn't I see potential in those chunky frames? 
Why was I only looking for the “good” stuff? 
Why did I assume they were all useless, 
when they may have been well loved despite their appearance.  
Why didn't I think of making something beautiful, 
from something overlooked?
Perhaps my disregarding, judgmental thoughts 
represent our disposable minded culture? 

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