We loved indiscriminately,
bought a house before it sold
and our future hovered, infinitely.
We shelved glass ducks to display intimacy
in their bodies, see-through and cold,
and we loved them indiscriminately
for the promises symbolized indefinitely
but then they turned fragile, old,
and the future hovered immanently.
The shards lay in wait, impudently
loose and dancing, glistening bold
but we kept loving indiscriminately
until when they fell, he shrugged innocently,
gathering them up into his hands, good as old
and, well, isn’t it always the future eventually?
But I shook the shatter, made it stimulant
glue smelling sucker-punch heart turn told
and though I had loved indiscriminately,
our future—that shit—was breakable infinitely.
Emily Dillon is a writer and educator from the Piedmont Plateau of Maryland, between Washington D.C. and Baltimore. She seeks honest representations of lived experiences in her work, which ranges from nonfiction to poetry and all the lyrical places in-between. She is currently an assistant editor for Brevity. www.emilydillonwriting.com.