The Kuleshov Effect
Rachel Marie Talan
Shelved books gather dust like old,
forgotten trophies. Sunlight streams through
the open window,
The author spins phrases on his typewriter
while the sun strikes his back with
warmth, with pain.
There’s a dandelion on the lawn. A
lone survivor. All his friends, killed on
behalf of beauty’s war.
She sits at the bar and takes her
first drink in fifteen years.
A cigar still burns in an ashtray,
smoke dancing up and away from its
The metronome ticks atop the musicless piano.