Back to Issue Two.

What We Remember, What We Forget



We’re on our knees, prying off a baseboard, 
searching for an ant’s nest. You’re talking, Deer, 
I’m trying to keep up. I catch something about 
structural lines and the benefits of chemical dusts. 

The sun breaks through clouds and windows, 
baking our necks. The wind dies as it hits 
the wall of trees surrounding this house. 
I could teach you how to deconstruct 

this gated community, about the poverty 
of the third-world children who made our uniforms. 
I could tell you that when we were young, 
I cheated every time we played Monopoly. 

I’m waiting for rain that doesn’t want to come, 
for all the green leaves to turn brown and 
let go of their branches. You could explain 
the best method to head-butt a soccer ball, 

describe the weekend you went to Cleveland 
for the jazz festival. You could tell me about 
your murdered friend, the mortician’s work 
wasted by the closed casket. You’re waiting 

but I don’t know what for, maybe a hint 
of sand to point the way. What can we say, 
on the floor of this million dollar house, 
to make our two blue worlds seem less strange?



Anthony Frame is an exterminator who lives in Toledo, OH with his wife and their spoiled cat. His poems have been published in or are forthcoming from Third Coast, Versal, Mobius, Connecticut River Review and New Plains Review, among others. His first chapbook, Paper Guillotines, was recently released by Imaginary Friend Press. He is also co-editor of the online journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry. You can find out more at