Circadian Rhythms
Introducing daylight savings
was the beginning of
the end. My body says:
24 hours?
A construct—
this isn’t the same
3 p.m. I knew as a child.
Not the one where daddy
and I would dance,
and I’d stand
on his feet.
The 9 p.m.s have changed
too, and some days
I think the air knows it.
It tastes like noon,
and despite my better
judgement, I’m reminded
of the beginning—or
the end.
Let's Begin
That spring smelled
like smoke on the rooftops—
like a moon-filled
periwinkle blue breeze and late
April’s luminescent light
poisoning. Like floral
Candles and a flitter
of a gaze from paper to
person, capturing
features and gestures in messy
script—vernacular Van Gogh.
Pollen skittered from
sirens in the street
and we were unaffected
by storms. But while
I know we were awake,
I think I’d rather have slept.
I've Given Her a Name
I.
My loneliness and I sit
on a bench in a park
I’ve been to before.
I sip a coffee, and she reads
a love story. The coffee burns
my tongue and dribbles down
my chin, and I turn to laugh
with her. But she’s looking
down—tears spilling
into taunting pages.
I pick up her hand to wipe my chin
and she blows her nose in my sleeve.
II.
My loneliness and I dance
sometimes, when the light
is low and slow music plays.
She spins on her toes, and I grab
at her hands. She turns away
and towards and holds my
gaze until her eyelids are heavy
and sad, and I let her lie down
on my chest for a while.
Most nights, though, I can’t
touch her. She sits on the edge
of the bed and hums.
Introducing daylight savings
was the beginning of
the end. My body says:
24 hours?
A construct—
this isn’t the same
3 p.m. I knew as a child.
Not the one where daddy
and I would dance,
and I’d stand
on his feet.
The 9 p.m.s have changed
too, and some days
I think the air knows it.
It tastes like noon,
and despite my better
judgement, I’m reminded
of the beginning—or
the end.
Water Baby
Today I will wander
into the ocean
with a scalpel.
Too much scar tissue
around the secrets I've buried
in my skin.
I will trace freckles
with a blade tip
and breathe with the billowing,
bloated tide. Minnows flit
between toes and blow
bubbles as my sides split.
One small tickle,
sludging and fickle ink-blood
set free in ribboning curls
of the razed universe that once pulsed
through my tired valves.
Garra Rufas nip
at the flesh I’ve outgrown
and polish my ribs, feasting
on aches I did not own
or cause.
Clean, I’ve room to play
with currents that whisper back
to the braille of my bones:
You’re so beautiful
in here. Your ocean
grave knows.
Filling emptiness
with shells, I corset my wounds
with fishing line.
After, I’ll come back
to shore in seaweed stockings
and new stitches laced.
A thin veil of foam.
Gloved in films of salt.