I sing the map of my youth
in subsidized harmonies, rent assistance and empty houses. Bank accounts below zero, and ice, well, ice, a luxury in a home with one warm room. Places, where wind-cracked shutters squat, destitute on a bed made of garbage bags and stolen thrift. Crime is not a choice – when the alternative to pride is death, only a way of life can be seen. The path is narrow, less than an alleyway, woven through friends, across couches. The rainbow’s end is not marked, no X, no rose or key, just legends of what may be beyond. And I go.
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Nolan LiebertNolan Liebert hails from the Black Hills of South Dakota where he lives with his wife and children in a house that is not a covered wagon. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Gone Lawn, ExFic, Map Literary, An Alphabet of Embers, and other publications. He can be found on Twitter @nliebert. |