For once, I am not thinking of a place
so much as of not-here, not where
we stutter like a knotted thread through
cloth until we stop fast. What holds
us is a temporary weave at best. I know
that now. I am anchored in. I risk
cracking in the center or breaking
in half. It comes with the territory—
so frequent, so necessary. The things
we need the most are most often
dropped. I could be lost, could be
replaced with something from a card,
something the right size. Just find
the cobbled nexus where I used to
stand and slot the new one in. (I’m
sorry. I know you’re thinking of
the difficulties.) I could slip between
the floorboards or roll along my
edge. I could come to rest in a corner.
You will never even know I’m here.

Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her work appears in numerous web and print journals, including Antiphon, The Bellingham Review, The Louisville Review, and Nonbinary Review. Her chapbook Dear Turquoise is available from Dancing Girl Press. She serves as Managing Editor for Cider Press Review.