here i find, a crease in memory,
tucked between three hues and a faded glow of
cell phone glare — a photo of a duck, now here,
four flowers, one red barn, your dog, your cat,
a couch draped with you
the codification of a period of time — march through
may 3 years ago and 9 lifetimes away
the secret suitcase dressing itself in a
chest of saccharine smiles that do not belong to me

and then the tuck – the resonant memory of how
these faded photos felt when embodied —
crashing blueberry pie on the roof of my mouth,
careening rage, the salted taste of snow
that never fell; silent words never spoken
the secrets that lies between a couple that
no longer sleeps in the same bed, strangled in
space like two stars staring at a different moon

now here a lullaby, now here a frozen pizza, the crunch
of recyclables at the bottom of the plastic bin
the crack of dawn, the wailing cry, the breath
of dawns transforming into dusks, the husk of
half a cup of love dwindling down to a slow and
intermittent drop; the drip of folded plates sitting closer
in intimacy than my hands that dare not touch
even one another
the rattle of scream, of laughter, of never-quiet mind chatter

then the silence of this photo in my screen
one duck, four flowers, one red barn,
your dog, your cat,
a couch draped with you
and the echo of ten thousand symphonies i can
no longer hear



Lauren Suchenski has a difficult relationship with punctuation. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and four times for The Best of the Net. Her chapbook “Full of Ears and Eyes Am I” (2017) is available from Finishing Line Press, and a full-length collection “All You Can Measure” as well as a chapbook “All Atmosphere” (Selcouth Station 2022) are forthcoming. You can find more of her writing on Instagram @lauren_suchenski or on Twitter @laurensuchenski.