Amelia Glass Nov 2018
What does distance really do? I don't feel
like I need you now that I've been balanced
with only my own arms raised
at my sides, my questions asked, my
physics written out in chalk, my palms
wiped on my jeans. I can do without
Rube Goldberg machines.

Was I supposed to miss you more? What
is distance even for? And be honest,
are you really shocked that I would doubt
what I want? On every Apollo mission,
two men walked on the moon
and the third one waited in orbit.
Amelia Glass Oct 2018
I'm thinking of events that require name tags.
The first day of camp. College visits, and orientations.
Conferences. Mock United Nations.
I'm thinking of hearing parties through glass
and turning the fan on for the noise.
I'm thinking of trying to think about boys.
I'm thinking of driving from Illinois
to Indiana to Ohio and watching the terrain
stay the same. I'm thinking the check
engine light is on. And I should get a new
lock for the back door. And fill out a W-4.
I'm thinking of how intense a crush
would feel to a binary star.
I'm thinking of the oceans people are.
I'm thinking, what is it with poets
and the sky?
Why do people hide? How many strokes
can I take without a breath?
What other kinds of sentences are there?
Are we there yet?
Amelia Glass Sep 2018
I can't forgive you
for teaching me self defense
is always to ****
Amelia Glass Sep 2018
The skin on my fingertips is cracking.
I washed all the dishes by hand.
I dried them and stacked them
and put them away.
I walk on the wall between honest and kind.
I wait for the film to unwind,
or become exposed.
The darkroom is where I first
taught my heart to close.
To add the sulfate and turn on the bulb
so the picture wouldn't change,
the way turning on the light
doesn't knock over the first domino.
How your arms rise from your sides
when you skip, a bird taking flight.
How you lie on your stomach
to photograph a seagull.
How do you love two people?
When I close one part,
the cracks form somewhere else.
I walk on the wall between honest and kind.
It is seven feet tall.
I throw an arm out to either side for balance
but it reminds me of you,
so I fall to the right.
precarious
Amelia Glass Aug 2018
The clouds crouch low over
San Francisco, and they are deciding
between blanket and weather.
They do not know whether to be
comfort or a cold matter of fact.
They do not want you to look back and
sea provides the cold, air provides
the hot, the marine inversion
the Atlantic never had.
Have you ever said things confidently
without being sure? Have you ever asked
about her faith and listened to the answer,
say, the number of beads,
without being sure,
but knowing she was? So at least
that makes you sure of something.
Have you ever heard music
in a public place and felt that foggy weight--
what does it take to dance anymore?
What is that extra oomph it takes
to get your arms above your head?
What is the difference
between fog and dead?
The joke is that I don't remember.
Amelia Glass Mar 2018
I flip from about the author to the dedications
again, but I'm sure I like
an appropriate balance of looking
back and staying here. I break
Passover when it coincides with your
birthday this year. When the snow
melts to reveal the leaves with crunch
preserved, and they dance in the
storms that make birds cling,
I welcome back the dead
while I breathe the living.
When the weather vane tucks
in its arms to gain momentum I watch
it spin, but I never spin myself until I hear
the rain tell me it is copying the comet--not
falling, but reaching for grounded like
imagination after I close the book.
Amelia Glass Feb 2018
Alaska is the largest united state. Jupiter
is the largest planet in our system. Yours
is the brightest eye in the darkroom,
loudest boot-soles in the hallway, a real
sonic boom of a presence. I like
to see you taking up space. Weaving
the lanyard through your fingers as you
swing your keys, chains colliding over
and again bringing you home. I like
to be there when you return. Green
walls, eight paws, books strewn and notes
scrawled--I like the signs that you live
here. I like the volume you occupy. Demand
a kiss when you burn your lip. Unzip
your coat and hang it on the back of your
chair because you live here. I like to see
Jupiter's cyclone hasn't shrunk it and
your storm hasn't stopped you.
Think of space, and then take it.
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