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Brittany Frasure
A Southern Mourning

When Pap died,
we ate fried chicken after the funeral.
I sat and had a biscuit,
wanting silence
      and a shower
to wash away the germs
death had brought,
cemetery dirt caked thick
on the bottoms of my black-heeled shoes.
It was January cold,
and all I could do
was freeze.

Brittany Frasure
Envelope

Maybe we’ve come from twelve steps away –
the absence of cold hands and hearts
to push us from that uppermost ledge:
the leap is fatal.
The stay likewise deadly
in its promise of always being.
Maybe you and I are worth all the licks
a white envelope can manage
before the back starts to tarnish –
maybe there can be a train, all that sappy jazz,
and be a day for stopping.
Or maybe we’re not.
Maybe we’re only admirable
as are the silent contents of a cold, hard, unlaminated drawer.
There, forgotten, but fresh in every feature
if remembered again.

Brittany Frasure
Sick

Sleeping with sick
alters what’s within grasp
like valleys where trees grow in sand.
Pillows of powder seep through
the waters of my brain, and the effect
is offensive, gritty,
only a delay of already dwindling parts,
which will come to carry
my stride from its strain.
Sometimes I wonder
if life has really been worth
all the breathing
in and out.

Brittany Frasure, of Paintsville, a BSCTC alumnus, is now a student at the University of Pikeville.

 

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