Phinixien

apple meat in a blanket peel

and the autumn circles three times

before snuggling in

I miss you desperately. 

It swells, heaving in my chest,

like that time we threw up

for laughing too much.

That time we got too drunk when we were too young. 

Pearls roll off my tongue when I say

your name and they

clatter, 

louder than clam shells,

on the concrete reality of your coffin,

and they are nothing compared

to the swine-truth of death. 

And the days pass like

the rain soaked ribbon of the road

my feet pound down, and I cry out

maybe I can reach the past

before it happens.

And the roughness erodes my boots,

roperash of trying to pull your laugh back. 

I hope the next time is better.

Running to Target in the rain, 

I can do nothing but light candles

and whisper canons of grief. 

Resting on a feather's breadth,

I sigh and pull closer your wept

singsong confessions, cradling them

And your bandaged cheek in my palm.

Resting on a foal's eyelash,

I bow like a viola with each ocean crash

of your laughter's moaned notes,

late into a spellcast night.

Oh, that starlight tremor of your eyes

that pulls me into gold droplets

for the divinity of your kiss,

the pomegranate and ichor of your kiss.

You are those cathedral ceilings,

cellar doors, wine-lit and moondrunk,

dark and stormy nights 

spent in pews of petrichor.

You are tide pools,

and the mercury of gothic coasts

shrouded in moss and mystery,

or in secret empires of fungal decay.

You are honeybee wings,

the murmuring of shattered illusions,

do not forgive easily,

and remember like the Moon.

You are gunpowder,

and the smell of flash, burn, shock,

Quick decisions and quicker temper,

I whine for one flash of your flintlock.

You are harvest mead,

blackberries on the side of the road in August,

too much butter on cinema snacks,

and whiskey stolen from Mom's liquor cabinet.

I still taste those spinning summer stars.

I still taste wishes like popcorn.

I still taste hope like elderberry medicine.

Huddled against a crisp breeze,

On a park bench,

Her mitten near my glove,

Our whispers settle in,

The fog over a velvet pond.

The susuruss of frost

against our boots stuffed with paper,

We laugh when it isn't clear

If the crunch is snow

or this morning's front page.

I know there are mothmarks in my coat,

And when couples pass us by

I can feel the longing of your hand,

Despite all these layers.

I promise, as soon as we get home.

You stand, all swans and swords and secrets.

Like the condensating bench, I weep for your warmth.

I cannot take your hand, so I take your side.

Your giggle and sway brush our fingers together,

And we try to hide our race home.

11.02.2020

Thoughts of you are clutter.

Stranded, broken-down cars on an abandoned acre.

Spare parts.

No love, no you, to keep things running.

I seive the dry dust through my fingers.

Wander through our past.

Pick up the stones of past fights.

Pick at the splinters of hurtful words.

Pick through each nail and bolt and screw labeled "I love you."

Take stock.

Look past.

Walk away.

I come apart

I become a swamp.

Bits and pieces strewn throughout,

My voice tangled in the moss covered trees,

My hands floating in the brackish water,

Feet stuck firmly in the mud.

My anger turned cottonmouth, serpentine, sneaking, sinister.

My shins have fallen somewhere along the wayside, indistinguishable from the logs and crocodiles.

My head, my heart, are the boat that guides me.

This boat has sprung a leak.

This boat is filling with murky memory, fetid feeling, darkwater doom.

My arms, my oars, are dried out driftwood,

lifted away by a sour breeze.

She is wading through the mud and the muck and the moss

Collecting each piece,

Ankle here,

First kiss there,

Patiently untangling my voice from the trees.

Steers me to shore, both of us drenched in creek-tears.

Patches me together in the cabin of her love.

Listens to the creaking of my lungs as they settle back into my chest.

And,

somehow,

I am pulled together again.

By Phoenix Chambers