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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 3, September 2014


Aubrie Cox
Taylorville, Illinois, USA

Prepositional Generation

She saw the house before she met my mother's third husband. A month, or two, or three after the wedding my grandmother grows curious about the renovations—the kitchen countertops, curtains, and paint. All looking out at a lakeside view.

We convince her to come down and the tour includes a lot of “wows" and “very nices.” Little by little we squeeze in stories about my stepdad, take her down to the dock. She balks at the sailboat. “He must have a lot of money.” I pick a few leaves out of the waterlogged rainbow sail.

fridge art
all the colors
of the sun

When I was ten, my grandmother gave me a box of broken glass to play with.

I spent the afternoon at the kitchen table pasting the pieces into a pie pan. There was no brown, so I had to use the darkest orange for the trunk of the tree that always appeared on the right-hand side of everything I drew or painted.

I didn't know it at the time, but she was doing the best she could. That this box was a shorthand of her psyche. That this was her last ditch effort before I got older and wasn’t fun anymore.

green cattails
the wake of a dozen

When she’s ready to go, I get back in the car to take my grandmother to lunch. She turns to me and says, "That was supposed to be my life."

blue daisies—
bringing him home
for the first time



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