The Maynard
Spring 2015

Kristina Shue


A sigh escaping your nostrils billows my skirts. I grab the ends to make myself a kite, and your fingers press into me like hurriedly-growing trees. I hope to break from your touch. Like a bubble, into hardly-seen residue clinging to your skin in desperation: gather it, make it again. Less of it, but again.