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by Sarah Maclay

As if through glass, through windows, in a café, in the afternoon or early evening, in June, in June or November, month like a fetish of gray—a month of water hanging onto itself; until it drizzles, a month of dulled light—he is seen for a moment, accidentally, between appointments, in the middle of errands, walking down steps, the cement steps, say, of an old bank—old enough for granite, for columns—pulling his keys out of his pocket, or gripping the small black remote that replaces keys (which you can’t hear the sound of, behind all this glass), and approaching his car, so that for an instant you see his face unguarded—or as unguarded as you will see it—and you try to memorize it, but it’s too fleeting, so that now only the back of his head, and maybe the veins in his arms that you memorized before (the way his fingers go, his shirt)—or the waiter comes, the waiter comes by and asks if you’ve decided, the waiter comes by and asks if you’ve made up your mind—

but this is the opposite of confession.

From "The White Bride" (University of Tampa Press).


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