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Whir by Marjorie Power


by Marjorie Power

published in Peacock Journal, 2017

Preparing to market our last house we sort mugs, linens, boots, books, hooks in little plastic drawers

nesting bowls and winter coats. We choose which furniture to sell – trestle table, fairy tale bed. We circle

through each carousel of tiny photos

meant to be seen projected large on a bleach-white screen

left at Goodwill before we moved here. Left with its partner, that machine whose whir meant all’s right with the world.

My husband cranes his neck. He squints. Scenes we’ve selected appear on his device. He clones them in a blink and each flies off.

They return, oddly colored, in fat envelopes. Ready for albums to place solidly on the table where grandchildren sit.

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