I’ll walk through the body
Dark hollow bowl-shaped at times
We hear the atonement of ashy strings
Plucked too quickly and the scratch of their broken
Nails attempting chords
Mostly we hear the footsteps
Of dust mites gathering on the surface
Engorging on themselves
Piling high one on top of the other
Until someone’s hand wipes them off
The one that smogged the halls of a peopled building
The one that gave generations of hands
Motivation to graze walls
I see myself
Looking both ways to walk 4 feet
Inhaling the stench
Of phones scrolling
While the body works
I heard craned necks
Focusing on computer screens
Eyes scrambling to keep up
With the notes on a page
The tones of a lecture
Or the drones of a beat
They walked outside
To eat their lunches in hideaways
Marked by their names
They talk between the walls
Not through them
Gaze at the backs of heads
Not into eyes
Rest awake
Sleep through dreams
In a wash of white noise
I hear crickets
Strumming a long tone
To accompany the click of your finger’s keys
You sat beside me
With orange light streaming
As flight attendants moved back and forth
I reached out to touch your hand
Encapsulating mine
In your warmth cold
How many days can we have like this
Listening to silence
How many days can we have like this
If the clay was smooth,
Your
desires
Could seep through
But bowls, plates, and vases
Could not chip
At your thoughts.
If the clay was smooth,
Toothpicks would serve as utensils
For fine details
Knives would easily trace
Straight lines
Spoons would remove excess.
If the clay was smooth,
You would question
If water seeps out
You would wonder
If by taking the mostly molded cup,
You could stain your white hands.
If by taking a sip,
Do you risk tasting the brown?
If ghosts of past mistakes could fade away,
Rolled into a ball and smoothed out.
a slight pang in my chest
travels down to my stomach
and sits
sometimes it doesn’t come till later
until after something
or after nothing happens
I wonder
if the feeling from my chest
after something or nothing
now sitting in my stomach
will be there later
it has nothing to do, but sit
it is natural to sit
after something happens
after pain leaves the chest
if pain leaves the chest
I wonder
if their silence
after I address it
is for listening
for processing or
for confusion
now,
must I re-examine our past
is it tainted?
aggression or understanding?
was that slight tingle
something I should’ve cried over or
something I should have brushed past?
Am I the story with broken chapters
Riddled with typos
Contradictions and plot holes?
Do I have creased corners
On crinkled pages?
Molded over dusty desks
Marked by finger swipes
Do spiders make their homes on my surface?
Stretch their webs around bookshelves?
Bending by the weight
Of my words
