by Paul Ilechko
She was breathing deeply as she ran beside the stand of trees sheltered from the westerly wind her teeth frozen from exertion her breath aligned with the morning calm later that day the locusts would be crooning but for now she jogged through the thickness of a heavy silence she had come to realize that the more time she spent outdoors the deeper she was able to penetrate into her most internalized emotions with fewer distractions her awareness increased listening to her own breathing to the muttering of her own heart back home nothing awaits her except the furniture a house filled with the inanimate nothing for her to fear there are books close to hand and fresh fruit laid out in bowls of bronze or hand-turned cherry wood all of it unaware of her presence as she tunnels into a heavy vein of emptiness still running even now desperately straining for a finish line that only exists in memory shoes tightly laced hair soaked in fresh sweat her hands grip the arm of her chair as tightly as she has ever gripped anything in her life. ______ Paul Ilechko is a British American poet and occasional songwriter who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, The Night Heron Barks, Lily Poetry Review, Stirring, and The Inflectionist Review. He has also published several chapbooks.