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JOSH MAHLER | The Window

The Window

I don’t think about

it much anymore,

but when I do,

life is a souvenir

won at a carnival

that ends up in

a desk drawer,

like long nights

of drinking and

worse mornings of

regret and sickness,

it’s like waking up

in the middle of

the night with

an eyelash worked

into the white part,

you rub your eye

until you look like

you’ve cried,

like a knife thrown

into the cold water

I watch the blade

split the stream

into two roads of

a choice I never got

to make, I get up

from my desk on

the ninth floor

and walk toward

the window,

I look down at

things smaller than

they actually are,

I think of you

and put my hands

in my pockets, how

simple it would be

with no control,

I stare down at

roads, people, all

of it making sense,

I lean into the

window and let

my forehead touch

this ordinary thing.

Josh Mahler lives and writes in Virginia, where he was educated at George Mason University. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Plainsongs, the Evansville Review, Exit 7, Artemis Journal, the Carolina Quarterly, Light, and elsewhere.

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