Poetry by Jessica Costello
The road home feels like a funeral procession—steady pace, no interruptions, clear destination.
But I can’t see who burns atop the pyre;
whether the pile of ash is my past self or my progress, given oxygen only to perish
in offering to an uncertain, unknowable,
crowning a hill in open air.
Would you do it again? I ask a mediocre mirror of myself
Would you die for me
so I can live for you?
A pinch of pain now, for later glory
a moment of doubt--
She lights the match.
About the Writer
Jess Costello is a graduate student in counseling, writer and arts reporter for Boston Hassle. Her work has appeared in Boston Accent, The Blue Mountain Review, and a variety of other outlets. When not studying or writing, she's exploring nature, talking to her cat, playing the ukulele, or haunting Instagram and Twitter @jcostellowrites.