Level by Carolyn Guinzio

Balancing the dull blade of a knife on the line in the center of an aspirin,
V presses down with her palms. They have put in the stent. They count
the cells in what courses. Once this dissolves into that, what was cloudy
will be clear. V took what she could not stand the sight of out to the alley.
The air tanks. How long have you been living here alone? Long story short,
she says ten years. What she can stand the sight of stands there still. Crows
eat carrion from the gutter while she sleeps in a chair. Yesterday she hated
what the carrion was. Today she hates the crows. Love equals pity equals
hating what hurts you. V pedals the stationary bike. V dons a down coat
and slides into the car. The sky waits, the color of The Lake. The Lake waits,
meeting the sky half way. They are both moving, and neither of them move.

Carolyn Guinzio is the author of six collections, most recently How Much Of What Falls Will Be Left When It Gets To The Ground? (Tolsun Books, 2018). She lives in Fayetteville, AR. Her website is carolynguinzio.tumblr.com.