Back to Issue Forty-Two

Glass Castle


After “Spring” by Frank Weston Benson


Our first day in town, my husband unstoppered a flask.
He drank with the crows in the field and the new neighbors
apologized for him. He will return, like a fledgling

to its mother. Until then, the palette was so muted
in New Hampshire that I could touch the landscape
without tasting it. There was vulgarity

to the peonies, how they lay over one another
until I prised them apart with my nails.
Then the river dried up like a whitened tongue.

My husband walked into the night sky
and fell through the front door four days later. He still loved me
but I stuffed my ears with honey so I would not love him back.

After, we sold that place and our marriage. We strayed
in opposite directions. Him to the west, me to the house
we had said we would plump with gas lamps and candles

and children with stained cheeks. Here, the neighbors gossip
for months. The walls stay unlit. I wander on soft feet,
survive the winter by bedding with crows. I want

to go home, but I have already forgotten
who I belonged to, why four days later
the dirt outside is freshly churned, the riverbank

as translucent as the climbing tide. Still
the landscape lies on my tongue. In my throat rushing
with sweetness when I bury the river in my mouth.


Dana Blatte is a first-year at Hamilton College. Her work appears in Lunch Ticket, Fractured Lit, The Shore, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and elsewhere, and has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, Penguin Random House, and the Pulitzer Center, among others. She loves bedroom pop, unnecessarily long walks, and honey almond butter. Find her on Twitter @infflorescence.

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