Molly Minturn



The stairway is blue, hums the hour. Very close,
the smell of plastic forsythia. I’ve been ruthless
in the basement and come away with Uncle’s shooting cape
and the game we called Blockhead. Preoccupied with doves—
the way their necks wretch when they fall. Green
cape, swoop, the orderly descent. It makes me
woozy for all-school chorus, the timbre,
the brunette altos. Repeat the word cadence until something
awful. This room—frosted bedspread and Latin diploma.
I have taken a shine to Grandfather’s neck
ties and baby ring. I pocket the funeral, the silver
from the converted piano. Outside, our meadow
of creamed corn. Please turn me deciduous. Scarlet
the parlor. My terrible arms wing up in the dark.

MOLLY MINTURN lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, Indiana Review, The Iowa Review, Longreads, Sycamore Review, and The Toast. Her first chapbook, Not in Heaven, will be published in Ireland shortly.

Issue Four
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