“Primer for the Afterlife” by Alyssa Moore

There is no prologue. There is likely no epilogue, either,
only the truest, most salient things I’d sometimes think I might say to you
in the rare quiet moments that invited fatigue and unforgiving honesty—your hair wet,
feet bare, my hands blackened with soot but the fire
strong enough in its hearth for us both—
I would’ve told you that you don’t have to be your father,
that I like that you know which side of yours I prefer to stand at,
that the love has changed, but been there all along.
I’d sometimes think I’d say these things to you, these not-quite confessions
that grew in number and weight as years and rare quiet moments passed
but I never said much to you, and now that all the moments
and all the potential for all the moments have passed
I’m starting to think that there will likely be no epilogue, either

Profile: Alyssa Moore

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