Other Blue Things

by nicolecallihan

The umbrella I left on the train; the jacket of the woman who was sitting across from me, the one with the sad eyes and the smooth cuticles; the ink in the pen in the pocket of my purse; deli carnations; the bird I was cast as in the first grade, the one who couldn’t fly; a stone; a sky; what Christmas would be without you; the space between red and yellow, between mapped land and chartered stars, between two and true; the sound of running water, of running, of walking away and not turning back, of not turning, of turning too quickly; a berry pie; very cold ice; a very hot flame; my pappy’s eyes; the guitar pick he’s got in his pocket; the bird, though, (little bird/little bird blue), in the end, I think she flew, though I didn’t, of course, being only six with no wings at all save the feather-plastered cardboard they strapped to me just before the curtain rose.
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