What has grown --
what has fallen --
I am running on sturdy legs, real within a
pink sweater. I am all the things you
thought I never was. There are Christmas
songs in my ears, the worst and most shrill –
unreal ones, stripped of all their mythos
and significance. Someone is tipping the trash
barrels in a drunken rampage – a Milwaukee
Thursday night, dark of winter. Glass is
smashing, one voice screaming, another
laughing. Running to the window to see.
Amy Murre lives and works near the shores of Lake Michigan in southeastern Wisconsin. She writes poetry and prose, creates art, tends to family and animals, and teaches at MSOE. Her poetry has appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Melusine, We’Moon, and Stoneboat, among other publications.