by
Jude Marr
easy for me to leave
with lines unsaid—
leave a loaned key
brass-bold
on a nightstand
with a note that explains
nothing
leave on a whim
in a cab
after breakfast or dinner
or in between
arguments
leave behind a book
already read or a sweater
with holes too big
to fit in a single bag—
and when I overnight
airside, or in an alien
motel, I may recall
Don Quixote
or hear again a speech
of Vladimir’s and wonder
if you’re cold—
or I may fall
asleep as easily
as I grow old.
<span style="color: #222222;">J<em>ude Marr has an MFA from Georgia College. Her work has appeared in </em></span><em>The Cortland Review<span style="color: #222222;"> </span>r.kv.ry<span style="color: #222222;">., and </span>Black Heart Magazine<span style="color: #222222;">, among others</span><b style="color: #222222;">. </b><span style="color: #222222;">She reads for </span>WomenArts Quarterly Journal<span style="color: #222222;"> and she is an assistant editor at </span>Ghost Ocean<span style="color: #222222;">.</span></em>
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