Shoo-fly
by Madeleine Murphy
i. I spent autumn with call numbers, falling in love with spines I could not possess, misplacing could-have-been heirlooms. Winter was sneaking obvious glances at my chest, test answers, anywhere but my mind. Forgotten, for me. | ii. When the act was quite, the sting real, the pain perceived, nomenclature was elusive, never touching throat, foreign to esophagus and naïve vocal chords, (I’m scrubbing the graffiti, fresco on my skin) preferring to stagnate with you in my gut. | iii. Panicking deep in a sea of shale, learning to loosen fingers in more ways than one, I envy your coordinates on the topography of my mind. I’ll spend summer, like cash, in holy reverence of things I don’t remember. |
Originally published in The George Street Carnival (May 2016).