I have words in my stomach and they are fluttering, but perhaps not yet ready to fly.
Thoughts from last night; Falling asleep, I can hear plates cracking. The shards of china reach out like fingers, the empty spaces between them are the spaces between your hands. The space between our curved backs is like the Grand Canyon, like a deep sea trench. I can hear you breathing and it sounds like a comet passing fleetingly. I don’t understand how you burn.
My boyfriend thinks I should publish a book.
Tagged by Nani: You have received this note because someone thinks you are a literary geek. Copy the questions into your own note, answer the questions, and tag any friends who would appreciate the quiz, including the person who sent you this. Don’t bother trying to italicize your book titles. We know you want to. (I’ve tagged people on the bottom of this post)
1) What author do you own the most books by?
JRR Tolkien. From memory, I own fifteen editions of various books by this master.
2) What book do you own the most copies of?
The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I own three copies of the trilogy.
there is a space
inside my belly
that is you-shaped
and one day I told my doctor
that I ate everything in my pantry
and still there was a gnawing
for the taste of you
breathe more, sleep
more, laugh more
and I did and I did
but the only things that taste
like home are coffee-cup smiles
and butterfly touches,
remembering that i thought
this is the sea
whenever I looked into your eyes
pressed my seashell ears to your
bellybutton and listened
for ocean things,
sometimes even thinking
of the colours in your voice when
you said I am small and
laughed because you tasted
and I think I have been drowning
since you disappeared into
Yes, yes, I do. Some like Thistle Magazine, Winter Tangerine Review, Words Dance, Ricochet Magazine, The Adroit Journal, Atwood Magazine, CACTi Magazine, etc etc.
Anyone have any other suggestions?
I look down, and there
is a city I know like I know
you, and she’s drifting, fading,
slow. Her limbs, splayed
across the mattress of the earth,
are traced like the contours of a map
with the flickering lights of people’s homes.
The on-and-off shuddering of a child
afraid of the monsters in the closets.
I can almost feel the dips of her thighs
and I wonder if she knows we’re dying,
if I know I’m dying, if I know that I am just
afraid of the dark, afraid that perhaps
I’ll never see her again, and I fly.
E-published in the December issue of Linden Avenue Literary Journal. x