In four years, I have not forgotten
the movement
and then the stillness.

A coffee maker gurgles its old throat
and I empty it.

The house smells like pills, bitter
in their yellowed bottles, and a full
summer in bed sheets, heavy with everything.

You played music. You jumped the curb.
You flicked penny upon penny
onto the pavement of that time-kept piazza
and fell into death as you would
a fountain, without a wish to save you.

Laurin Becker Macios holds an MFA from the University of New Hampshire and is the program director of Mass Poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Boxcar Poetry Review, Extracts: Daily Dose of Lit, Pif Magazine, [PANK], and elsewhere. She lives in Boston with six plants and one wicked awesome husband.

Read an interview with Laurin here.