Dana Lixenberg

In the attic of an old house he laid his head across my middle. “I always forget that some houses have attics and then I come here,”. I could smell his cologne, the faded peppermint part that stuck to the collar of his shirts. I was in thrall of him then, or maybe just very aware of the depth to which he’s sown in my life. There was a point where something had shaken free and gone to him. I wanted to say it- I’m in thrall of you- but a sigh came out instead. I touched my socked foot to a beam.

On the last day I reached over a fence to a pair of dark eyed horses and the pale one nuzzled me, its breath tickling my neck and face. I thought I felt its teeth for a moment but I couldn’t be sure. I ate an orange and wiped my hands on the wet grass. I smelled liked that for hours, the mix of citrus and lawn. Cocooned in it. Like a wet garden. My bare knees carried the imprints of leaves.