Amy Souza and Susan Kerr

Susan Kerr
“Start Again”
Inspiration piece

Start Again
By Amy Souza

Throw everything into the air and watch it scatter like a handful of jacks.

Think: I don’t have a life; I have complications.

Think: This bruise on my arm aches like pride.

Think: Only strangers interest me.

Start again.

Solidarity in the season’s first downpour. We pass on the street, sogged denim, laden hoodie. Nod, laugh. We’re ridiculous. Drowned rats. Skirt so heavy it’s pulled to the knees. No choice but to submit.

Start again.

That time driving fast behind a Buick with a washer-dryer roped on top, precarious. The swaying machines caught the sun’s glare. You said, Hang back. Those are going to fly off that roof. He said, You could think up ten ways to die at a picnic. Highway noise as silence. The back one moved toward you so slowly at first, it could have been a feather floating down. You turned and caught his eye, the fear. You wanted to say I told you so, but your words were already gone.

Start again.


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