Less of a Place
Leone Brander
It
was like that. The apricots soft and molding
before I ever got around to slicing them. I sold
a lamp I loved but broke and didn’t know how
to fix to someone else who could rewire it and
love it inevitably less than I could. Soon it will
be spring and my stupid lawn will start growing
again. How can grass growing be so exhausting?
You: the leaves clogging the storm drain in front
of my house. Me: in my pajamas with a plastic
rake, ankle-deep in cold grey run-off. I know I’d
be happier somewhere else that’s less of a place.
A waiting room. A train station. A hotel lobby.
before I ever got around to slicing them. I sold
a lamp I loved but broke and didn’t know how
to fix to someone else who could rewire it and
love it inevitably less than I could. Soon it will
be spring and my stupid lawn will start growing
again. How can grass growing be so exhausting?
You: the leaves clogging the storm drain in front
of my house. Me: in my pajamas with a plastic
rake, ankle-deep in cold grey run-off. I know I’d
be happier somewhere else that’s less of a place.
A waiting room. A train station. A hotel lobby.
Leone Brander is a writer and artist from the Canadian prairies. She holds an MFA from Boston University. Her work has appeared in Grain, Wigleaf, The Texas Review, The Bellingham Review, and elsewhere. Find her online @leonebrander or leonebrander.com.
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