#inkharbors

original poem: wishbone by richard siken

i don’t want bandages; i’m bleeding stars. it’s a downright graveyard, bone white and burning. i search for one last tender place to sink the bullet in my chest. i just want a bottle of whiskey and half a wish.

/ləˈkjuːnə/  (n.)

i. & it hurts. ithurtsithurtsithurts because the rain feels like shrapnel & the stars taste like old blood & the ringing in his ears sounds like a grenade -

ii. & he remembers only frayed lungs hacked blue and cold bones in his bed -

iii. & the ghosts in his chest plant dead flowers in the crevices along his spine / each decaying segment a gravestone / & names scratched deep into the marrow / each calling blood to his hands -

iv. & he chokes on moonlight, screams “is this what you call salvation?”

- homecoming pt.3 ( j )

you have sixty minutes to complete this test. not a minute more, not a minute less. follow the damn rules, for once. answer every question to the best of your ability. if the question is too difficult or even unanswerable, raise your hand and someone will come. (will someone really help? you can never know.) if you need a drink of water, exit the room and enter the first door on your left. try not to drown, the water fountain leaks.

question 1

which of the following is not like the others?

a) i peer out of the window of my car, road rules be damned. we’re hitting seventy, maybe eighty, and it almost feels like the wind is trying to blow me out of the car and away, away, away. maybe i want it to.

b) the grass feels warm and supple beneath my bare legs, and i pluck out a dandelion. the earth sighs, but i do not hear. as i draw breath, the wind does my job for me, and the wisps have floated away. i never got to make a wish.

c) i’m at the very top of the rollercoaster, and i’m staring down at the fall before me. the wind tips us over, and i’m light as a feather and i’m falling, and i’m not falling anymore, i’m flying, and my wings skim the top of the lake and i fall again.

d) i’m looking at you again, and the wind seems to have found a home in your eyes. a light wind could blow me away, and maybe it does; maybe i’m as fragile as a blank sheet of paper in the wind and just as empty, maybe the sound of the wind against my fingertips is home.

e) the wind is my home, the wind is where i am safe, the wind is all i can hear and my world is disappearing with the wind and my heart is shattering and the pieces are floating away in the wind and there’s something thumping against my chest and it’s the wind; the wind is all i know.

question 2

order the following events in chronological order:

- there is nothing here to find. - not all wars are cold. - i can see empires beyond the horizon line. - life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. - the only part of me not buried in ash is you. - the guillotine falls again and again and again. - there is smoke in the air and smoke inside me. - i sign myself away with a stroke of a quill. - our monuments have all crumbled. - we notch our arrows and let fly our bullets. - rise up, rise up, rise up. - how did this happen?

question 3

identify which of the following statements are true and which are false:

i. when i bite the my lips i taste blood ii. when i bite yours i taste ichor iii. did you fall from the sky to meet me? iv. or did i rise from the earth to find you? v. yes, i can see it now, i can see it all vi. maybe that’s why everything you touch turns to gold vii. and everything i touch shatters

question 4

is there a right answer for anything? or is it just the stars whispering nonsense in your ears, trying to watch you explode like they themselves did so many billions of years ago? is it just the rain hitting the paper? or is it the ink from your standardized 0.7 pilot gel pen spilling out in quicksilver rivulets all around you?

(use mla citations, and use the space below - all 93 billion light-years of space provided must be utilized.)

you have completed the test. congratulations.

this was the easy part. step outside the door to your right, and face the world again. that’s the hard part.

i feel a rush, but not like adrenaline. a rush like a current, like a crashing tide that could knock me off my feet if it tried just a little harder. it feels like wanting to be somewhere but not knowing where somewhere is. it feels like watching the things i used to love shrivel into new bullet-points on my list of failures.

i need a map to this heart of mine. i want to mark an X on every spot that spits black blood & stick a tack through every pulse.

i watch the pellets of shower-water blink little ripples around my feet & remember suddenly that we’d changed the tiling of the bathroom floor years ago. i also realise that i can’t recall what the old tiles had looked like.

i spend the rest of the shower watching soap suds disappear down the drain, pondering about all the things i don’t even know i have forgotten.

/ˈsɒlɪs/   (n.)

i. concept: rain falls from the sky’s exit wounds on days when the galaxy gets too heavy / concept: even the sky can only take so much weight.

ii. feel the solid ground beneath your feet / gravity is your safety net.

iii. the darkness is where your shadows dissipate into the inexhaustible space / is who cradles you like a lulling sea / is when you become part of the sea, your breaths tidal pushes and pulls slow-dancing with the moonlight / is why the moon now deems it safe to whisper her secrets against your saltwater skin.

iv. hold the atlas in your star-streaked palms; in this story, you are allowed to piece it back together / to tuck it in the crevice of your trembling heart / to keep it safe.