The Jane Smith Archives

Thursday, 6:39pm. She is poured in an oxblood dress and sipping Riesling at her desk, trying to remember her father’s last name.
Friday, 8:48am. She is watching wind lash her curtains while clutching today’s newspaper, debating whether or not anonymity can be honorable.
Saturday, 11:06am. She is unhooking the telephone, naked under overalls, contemplating the quickest way to settle.
Saturday, 2:47pm. She is in a hammock, eating blackberries and thinking: of all the colors in the world, her mother died in blue.
Sunday, 1:14am. She is stoned, writing an email to her sister she won’t recall. “What did he smell like? Did he love us at all?”
Sunday, 4:21pm. She is at the kitchen counter, slicing an onion, face dry as bone. Then his name is there in her throat, a choke of smoke: Doe.

by Dawn West

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