Issue 14

I am elsewhere under fluorescent lights,
and parts of me begin to sleep. An arm sleeps.
A foot. A heart. My head balances
on its neck like a crane at dusk.
The last of me disappears as a book of lost poems
lays open and lonely on my lap.

I am shaken from this trance
as the light outside unhinges me.
Golden and free, so discernible
from the light in this room,
as if somehow, one is light and the other isn’t.
Like pigeons and doves
or brothers who no longer speak.

I then rub my eyes and mistake the swaying arms
of a willow tree, for you.
The breeze moves through you.
A child tugs at your shirtsleeve.

And through an open and far away door,
I swear you’re motioning to me.
Beyond the footsteps of day and the trembling of leaves,
I swear I can hear you, whispering.