The Silence After
By Sloan Porter
It wasn’t the humidity
or the record breaking heat
so rare in a cold city.
Lounging around without an AC,
the cheap fan was enough
to calm my boiled blood –
I mean, cool me off.
It wasn’t that you weren’t enough,
although I saw what creeps on your skin
at night
in your sighing state,
the prickle of tiny soldiers that stomp and sabotage
all those good intentioned neurons.
It was, perhaps,
that I was caught in the crossfire,
although I knew
braving the no man’s land
meant getting shot.
It was, perhaps,
the silence after.
Manifestation
Last year you were my arms,
carrying boxes of junk
attached to memories
I tried to throw away myself.
Last month you were my legs,
running to my finish lines
long after the sunrise
kept putting me to sleep.
Last week you were my neck,
turning my head from
directions I wanted to see.
Last night you were my lips,
sewing them tight
when I was thirsty.
Tonight you are my eyelids,
snapping them shut.
On Wanting
Trust me
I may dig too deep,
pry you open with my claws
and rummage around for treasure.
I may stun you,
each of my fingers are tasers.
I may collapse
from the weight of wanting more,
curl up,
drown in my own liquifying words
that never leave me
but catch in my throat.
Can you watch me suffer?
Or even notice?
12 Hours
3:00 pm Nothing exists but us.
4:00 pm I sketch your smile on the window.
5:00 pm I air the room with your scent.
6:00 pm Your laughter becomes the birds.
7:00 pm Parts of you become this room.
8:00 pm Your legs are the frame of this bed.
9:00 pm Your freckles are the sparkled light of this lamp.
10:00 pm Your hair is the fabric of this duvet.
11:00 pm Our hands make their way beneath this duvet.
12:00 am My voice is viscosity when I say your name.
1:00 am Your voice is liquid when you say my name.
2:00 am I sink in the sound waves and drown in my name.
3:00 am Your sighs are hurricanes as you fall asleep.
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