a poem by Jess Harrison
There is nothing left to see.
Tarred wings of a blackbird.
A goldfinch. A mourning dove.
There is a bay of frozen water
that traps a pier in moment. I sit
next to it, waiting for movement.
In the middle of winter, I unearth
all flooring from the house. Wrench nail
from board until all walkable surfaces
fade. Stuff the mailbox with letters lacking
postage. Make breakfast out of eggshells
There is nothing like the time we waste.
Spent years that consume our veins.
The minuscule moments that darken
eyes, & solidify reaction.
I have dreams of a Cold War.
Of weapons composed of silence.
I saw my death. It was a fleeting panic.
Glassy eyes glaring up from under a solid
surface. An escapade of belligerence.
Falling through a weak spot of ice,
& getting trapped.
I put my hands out, as if begging
for freedom more than breath.
As if the thought of dying wasn’t
terrifying as much as the thought
of standing still.
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