Tag: capturingcampus

Capturing Campus: Hummingbird

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Hummingbird 

what must it be like to know someone?

not their favorite color or where they went to high school or where they want to retire or how they like their scrambled eggs on any given Sunday

but the texture of their skin

the patterns on their fingertips

born in the womb of their mother

the webbing and weaving 

are they high-strung or laid back?

with skin that sags around soft eyes

and peach fuzz

molded lips that taste of

dark-roasted coffee 

and the beating in their chest like a hummingbird 

when I press my ribs against theirs, my hip bone against theirs

we make a sculpture that breathes and pours

with sweat and some saccharine 

pleasure in the moment 

a pulsing and pressure

the roughness of legs

shaved two days ago

the bowing of their side and the curve of their arms 

bracing and borrowing glances

eyes closed, mouth wide

taking honeysuckle and morning dew

speaking only of cardamom and chamomile

whispering of rapture

to be enchanted in a body

to feel, to know

Capturing Campus: The Archway

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The Archway 

my great-grandmother had a house

she’s gone

but the house breathes

its strange breaths

strange faces

strange furniture

strange footsteps

imprinted by foreign feet

I remember the house

and it’s frightening to think that someday I won’t

that nobody will

that the memory will die with me

you’re getting so tall

she said before we left

beneath the archway in her living room

neither she nor I will ever stand beneath it

again, I am frightened that the memories

won’t be memories anymore

not that they will be conflagration-charred

cataclysmically-consumed

made holed and holy by a marksman’s arsenal 

but that they will dry up and fade

wet footprints on concrete

during the fourth of July 

when the weather was warm as the parade marched by 

I sat inside a home I might never see 

again, I am frightened

that anyone and everything is only mine

for a little while

that life is only for a little while

Capturing Campus: Ruler

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Ruler

your posture needs

bone cracking 

joint yanking

vertebrate tugging 

fixing 

nobody will take you 

your words

seriously 

without a ruler

against your spine

become a tower

burn the bridge 

extend your praise to the heavens

for height and highness

stretch past self-obsession 

and paused glances

breathe 

in the world you call yours

Capturing Campus: Dying Ritual

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Content warning: Suicide

Dying Ritual

Put on shoes—your best ones–or regular ones; tie them tight for white toes and pink ankles; start walking; walk with purpose, on a time crunch to nowhere; cross the street; watch for cars; don’t trip; remember not to trip; not tripping is important; round the corner at the stop sign; there’s a bird on a wire; don’t stare because that would be rude; keep walking; another turn; do you remember where you’re going; reach the gate; bend your spine; duck beneath; don’t let a car snag your side; up the elevator; press down; top floor; wait a moment; think of nothing in particular; wait some more; the doors shutter open; step onto the roof; find the courage; take a step; remember your shoes are tied; take another step; look at a bird, which could be the old one but isn’t; take a large step; how would one know if it is the same bird; take a larger one; step step step onto the ledge; is anybody watching; watch the bird that hasn’t budged; move an inch, a couple more; how many centimeters is an inch; the wind is cold; breathe a breath; make it good; don’t go slowly; say a prayer; don’t go slowly; don’t look down; but do; should you look down; is that what people do; look down and fall—or don’t; you’ll see it through tomorrow.

Capturing Campus: Washing Ritual

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Content warning: Obsessive compulsive behavior, gore

Washing Ritual

Close the door; lock it for privacy; check again, for privacy; remember to breathe; turn the faucet; let the water pour pour pour into the basin; watch the steam build up; pump the soap; press down one, two, three; like a cloud; scrub the palms and the wrists; the palms again; get the fingers: three, four, five; the frog webs or minor syndactyly—it must be one of the two: three, four, five; dig in the groves and under the fingernails that don’t have dirt under them but maybe they do, they always could: one, two, three, four, five; move to the left hand; one, two, three, four, five; one, two, three, four, five; one, two, three, four—the water should be scalding, just enough to blister, but not enough to regret; scrub hard, scrub very hard; scrape at the holes and the raw patches; rub away the fine lines, the creases, the folds in the flesh; keep going; the blisters will go away in an hour or two—maybe three; another pump: one, two, three; again—the right hand; the left hand; keep going; don’t stop; it burns because it’s working