Kira Clark


Here is how it happened.
There was a loud noise,
a bang, and
then a birth.
The paper mill does not close.
The paper keeps on coming.
White blank paper hangs over me
like a puppet sky that clips my head
from time to time.

Failure is not escapable, but
he sees someone else in the mirror now,
after fresh air and publication.

It is the loneliest thing,
dying, and also the loneliest thing,
watching someone die.
He says his wound hurts,
the bone.
Sit up, I say.
The changing of the sheets.
The changing of the life.
The life not changing ever but ending.

The T.V. helps, the westerns.
I buy him a horse, but
the sickness is already a herd of
crazed horses, galloping on
and towards and above his forehead.

Pushing the pads of my fingers,
into his loose and hanging flesh,
my hands dancing on snow.
Collapse, collapse.

Helpless in that
I cannot enter him,
and create an area that
is not pained.

Kira Clark is a fiction editor at Housefire Publishing in Portland, OR and a musician. Her work has been featured in some things, most recently in the upcoming issue of >Kill Author. She enjoys overpriced beer, cats, typewriters, letters, and vintage coats. She does not like dancing or the sun. If you would like to receive a typewritten letter from Kira, please email 

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