Prompt: from yesterday, write about something you’re disinterested in.
She peppers me with questions,
salts me down like a thick-cut
steak. Assaulted by the past,
I relent, tell her what I remember,
what I think I know.
Who can be sure, it was all so long ago?
I’ve tried slipping other topics in,
tried asking her, what’s new?
but always she returns to that old track
the stories stretching so far back
it’s dizzying, the scissoring.
She snips like making paper snowflakes
as if we could make something real appear
from nothing more than light and air.