elle-doughertyWhisper

American

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the history of a still small thinga small thing, aged 6, has small knees / braced in terror against the wall and one small hand / gripping the towel rack above its small head

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on the park benchwe collided under the wet-paper smell of the moon, threaded through the black grass. / there were no stars to see us, wild and crying; / i was cold for the first time in my life that night.

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a passing thought while bent over the arm of the sofanestled in this husk of half-light, we Are. / you so very / hauntingly swift and strong and me —

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"Being Alone Together," He SaidIn the deep hollows of an abandoned mineshaft, / poised under the giant reaching claws of ancient / machinery,

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crept beneath midnighti know that i am how i am because of my eyes / and what they are saying. / dark, they are, stretched and translucent --

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rescuei had a cut on my shin that day, and i could feel the salt digging into it with sharp fingers as the whole of the ocean licked at my kneecaps. there were goosebumps up my thighs, / down my shoulders / my winter skin fell against the ash of the horizon near-seamlessly. his was no different. we

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"i swear by all flowers"i remember you, little earthquake / and all those dark nights trembling together / that was my favorite season.

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28 OctThis morning I stretched out, glamorous and lazy, planning to be purposefully late. Dismissive and smiling. What real life? / I took my time, browsing through my thoughts and movements carefully and deliberately. Washed my hair in the sink for the fun and dirt of it. I still didn’t feel quite tired enough. I spoke with clarity and wit, despite the crusts caked over the leftover sparkles in my eyes.

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LessonsAfter so many nights pressed against the solid square of you, I felt geometry everywhere. The clock, that devil circle, cut out piece by piece, the triangles laid out in the way of us. Under my feet, red brick swayed back and forth in broken rectangles, bringing me closer with each step. And there were spheres - the suns you sent me from up north, the bulbs of unripe blossoms. Each day is a line. The length of them varies but the thickness does not. Each morning I wake up to trudge through the same murk. Take me to the ribbon and I will cut it and break through, landing on the flat of my back on your hardwood floor and never moving from that divine plane again.

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four dayswe are red jacket crew, we are belated petunias. / and we are the shining inside-outs / left over from the cold grass

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