an ache like evening, like claustro-
drowning in the two inches of water
that i call self– less because of an impoverishment of language
more because i am lazy &
life is so goddamn short.
outside, a hurricane brews. leaves
flutter like my brother’s defective heart.
(where is he now?) '
the air is all wet with clean doom.
i digress. (the ache. the claustrophobia.)
right. i was talking about coming across something beautiful,
looking beside you, finding empty
the perfect swimming hole & no one to swim with. opening your mouth to sing only to find
your vocal chords have vanished in the night.
look at you.
look at what you‘ve made
of yourself. joy bubbles in your throat,
like rabies, like cyanide.
after all of this, finally
you let loose a cough like living. it echoes in the canyon of your loneliness.
the ringing of a dinner bell
(small & clear & old)
that cuts through the purgatorial wood
calling you home for once & for good.
i digress. i have lost the thread.
all i ask
is that you answer the phone.
my brother, we have swimming to do.
Heather Denton is a junior Comparative Literature from Verona, New Jersey. Generally, she likes reading/writing fiction, good sandwiches, & the music of Bruce Springsteen. I promise you she is trying her very best right now despite what they say about her.