By Kelly Grace Thomas


There are numbers on my calendar of how many pages I am supposed to write each day.

After work, caffeine drip, red-wine promise of relaxing into my own words,

I sit at my computer, not wanting to kill my darlings, or have this conversation last longer than it wouldn’t.

There’s always that voice at the door, the stranger on my patio,

waiting for the resistance to burn the kitchen down.

Waiting for the words too tired to part from my lips like the Nazi pardons of political agendas

or bow-headed wives who can still taste their husbands infidelity after they brush their teeth.

It would be so easy to walk away, to live everyday eating apples, crunching on ordinary.

I was never hard wired for normal, never satisfied without riling the crowd.

Maybe not tonight, after you tuck in your worries,

or tomorrow when you step on the scale.

But one day you will know me,

and I will change how you see the world.