Read More: A brief interview with Sara Ryan
A Girl Sings Into A Well
it is deep and gaping.
of course,
her voice echoes like a bell.
of course,
her lips are humming sticks.
her song is a leather bucket carrying the water.
of course,
I am afraid of her. of the way
she opens her throat like a thirsty orchid—
she is an inevitable girl
in seven aching ways.
her body arched over the lip
of the well—
its mortared stones digging
into her, a familiar mutation of breath.
sometimes I am the girl, pushing sounds
from my neck until I feel solid again. clacking
rebar against the rock.
a bird ricochets against
the tunnel underneath a city.
of course, I am afraid
that when I wake up I will not remember.
more afraid, of course,
that the remembering
becomes my voice.
lifting from my mouth
like a wet
and sorry moth.
For a Moment
taking a picture of a picture is a reverie—the photo paper
a white glare of light. the glass in the frame is another
fragile layer. I am in my father’s office surrounded
by his shiny black synthesizer equipment, waiting
for the printer to work. its dumb body groaning
with ink and confusion. next to the desk lamp,
a small silver frame. beveled edges. slippery
velvet backing. my grandfather inside—handsome,
young. the side of his suit jacket tucked behind his hip,
his hand on his belt. the wind blowing his tie askew.
the backdrop, a silky blue curtain. my grandmother
next to him. cat-eye glasses. gingham shirt dress.
biting her lip. not dead at all. it’s almost like I am meeting
her in this glass box. we are shifting our names
around in our pockets. the clumsy letters mixing and splitting […]
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Sending a Book to a Boy
the boy from louisiana was short
and told me way too much over the phone.
he stopped talking to me after i drove
to chicago to meet him. this was a small […]
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Read More: A brief interview with Sara Ryan