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And The Women Said 

Published in Rattle 

http://www.rattle.com/and-the-women-said-by-kelly-grace-thomas/

 

 

 

 

 

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By Kelly Grace Thomas

 

One day her apartment changed its own locks.

On her garden patio with hand-painted mantras, she struggled in a two-hour key fisted tantrum, until a brassy voice interrupted.  

It’s best you stay on your side, the doorknob explained to her, we have all talked about this.  

You invite in too many rainstorms for hearts, the peephole winked, we can no longer live in your deep ends.

A spiral of break-ins, the kitchen added, shaking its head, with the aftertaste of twisted telephone cords wrapped around each tongue.

There is a Japanese war behind your eyes, the coffee table chimed; we can feel this kamikaze coming.

From the outside she peered in, cheek against window, a scavenger hunt for sympathy.  

Sorry you cannot come in, they said.

The television turned down its volume. The picture frame looked for another memory.

The couch silently searched for stamps between its cushions, hoping maybe it could just leave a note.

The refrigerator, a white nurse with starched standards looked in her eyes, like a Massachusetts winter.

Potato chips for breakfast? It said, with breath-chilled fog.  You are too blind to read your own expiration date.

 Sorry you cannot come in.

But I have loved you all, she said. We have lived in an alter of sea glass; sometimes we cut before we smooth.  

The oven half smiled, your heart has sewed itself into an apron three sizes to small. There is no more fabric to cover these stains.

Sorry you cannot come in.

You promised you would stop having dreams about him, the bed said, with its back turned.

I tried, she said. I tried. 

But thoughts of him have creep into my bones, I cannot move without his memory.

This is exactly why you must go, the lonely writing desk said, we will force you to move on.