smooth as glass, always moving, liquid as it is. permanent as sky, whatever color
sure as touch, and how we need it, gently through our hair or thick, like pain.
pressure in the head, thoughts whacking into windows, bounce and burn, I am a ghost
in quotes or brackets, parentheses or whispers. I am a liar; a shadow of myself.
tired as the moon sitting each night, running tides; in flux yet dimly stable, believing
two opposites into one. inside a beast snarls neatly fixed, one shard away from breaking
into violence; poor child, crawling outside my throat to wail. I become, in one hour
a self-consuming season. I lift my loved ones in my winds and watch them flail
sure as one swell of rain, gather into mirrors beneath my feet, sure to be gone
before next morning, allow the question: was it ever, am I crazy, meanwhile rage
hollow sadness. crop fails its farmers, deeply as the turned and watered soil
roots rot, nurturing unseen; soil collapsing in on itself. it is not me entirely, partly
it is; I buckle when the bleeding comes. these are the lost days. I whimper
my apologies, tenderly wash my wounds, appeal to others, I wish for a padded place
to land, a white bright day cushioned against the dark, waiting as the circle moves
into the next life, the one in which I own myself, the one I’m sure is coming.
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Cassie McDaniel has published poetry and fiction in Capsule Stories, Human Parts, Split Quarterly and Used Furniture Review among others, with forthcoming work in Cider Press Review. She lived in England and Canada for over a decade before moving home to Orlando. She is working on her first poetry collection, Letters to Dead People. Say hello at www.cassiemcdaniel.com.
Wonderful poetry, so evocative.