End of the Year Poem

Farewell 2012. May 2013 outshine all your dark moments and bring it’s own good madness.


Especially, These Little Parts


Jay, last night, carrying the bags up the subway steps,

we were tired, from another day of shopping in the city,

and traveling home for so long on those underground trains.

We had everything we needed for the holidays and the end of another year.


And this night, after the presents

were bought and wrapped and shipped

and dinner was decided,

we climbed those subway steps, our arms carrying

the holiday wine and we turned down 75th street

towards home, the wind coming up from the estuary

bitter through our snow caps.


You were saying something,

and I’m sorry love, but I wasn’t listening well and can’t remember now

because the sky was such a headstrong blue, almost imaginary

and the stars were already starting to cut their way

through like shards of glass tearing that painted canvass.


I’ve never seen it look so clear.

The way I hope it’ll look at the very end.


And I just wanted you to know that even though

I didn’t say anything that night,

in all that blue, and starlight

through all that wind and cold

when you took my hand in yours

and tucked it into your warm pocket,

I realized that this life is more than enough

and when it’s gone,

I’ll want to do it all over again,

even these little parts

where nothing important is said,

just you and I and the way we must look from space

walking like tiny gods among that blanket of glassy stars.


Yes, even these little nothing walking home parts,

I’ll want them again when they’re gone.


I will press the heel of my hands to my eyes

to recreate the stars, to remember these little nothing parts.

Especially, these parts.


By Ally Malinenko

I live in Brooklyn which is good except when it’s not which is horrid. I’ve been writing for awhile, and have some stuff published and some stuff not. I don’t like when people refer to pets as their children and I can’t resist a handful of cheez-its when offered. I have a burning desire to go to Antarctica, specifically to the South Pole so I can see where Robert Falcon Scott died. I like to read books. I like to write stories and poems. I even wrote some novels. You can read them.

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