Linda Malnack

                The frustration of being stuck in just one body that inhabits
                only one place at a time
. —The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

There is someone in me throwing silverware in the lake, spoon after spoon, forks, knives, the
holder that holds them, the drawer.

There is someone in me throwing dish after dish against a wall. Someone emptying cupboards
with a machete, breaking open the sugar, the flour, tearing the microwave off the wall, the doors
off the oven, the windows out of their frames.

There is someone in me throwing the mop off the deck, dumping the water, kicking and kicking
the bucket.

There is someone in me skeet shooting, shattering clay pigeon after clay pigeon, filling the sky
with red blooms of dust.

There is someone in me lighting fires in the dark, watching them climb, race, roar across the tops
of trees. Someone crawling on hands and knees through a tunnel toward the sound of falling
water saying, I see it. I see it. The edge of my life unraveling.

There is someone in me gripping a metal office chair running hard toward a plate glass window.

Linda Malnack's poetry appears in Blackbird, The Fairy Tale Review, Prairie Schooner, and Willow Springs, among others. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and her chapbook, 21 Boxes, was published by dancing girl press in 2016. Linda is a long-time Co-editor for the on-line poetry journal, Switched-on Gutenberg, and an Assistant Poetry Editor for Crab Creek Review.

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