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Ian Holmes

I heard stories of parties where kids would get high and jump.

Climb willow trees

before rush and release,

cutting harsh lines through laughter.

Testing their mortalities,

they’d leap to prove things

like cats had no claim,

like nothing else could ride this wave of volition,

like as long as they kept jumping

they wouldn’t lose it.

The porticoes of wealthy parents’ blind eyes

cast in spotlights from below.

Fitting backdrops for foolish backgrounds.

And they’d do it because everything else

was running so hard and fast away from them.

That their sixteen,


eighteen years were all disappearing less slowly into now,

mere flashbulbs of memory.

But as long as they were here

streaking the sky,

they could keep it for a moment.

As if in this moment were a hundred thousand forevers.

As if forever was now.

As if all there was was now

and forever

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Issue 6


September 22, 2017

Secondhand was written by Ian Holmes, who is a graduate student in Minnesota prepping himself to spend the next forty years in libraries. 

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Issue 6

This writing was originally published in Opium Magazine, and is not listed in the archives.
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