Pulling out stitches

Stitches_Gleason_Weekender
Jessica Gleason/Staff

it’s only seven

I’d like to touch you
a little more-

said the boy

to the bed love

said the vulture

to the flesh

said the sun-bleach

to the rocks

said the canyon

to its eddies

said the body

to the wall –

it’s only seven

I’d like to touch you
a little more

it’s only seven but

you’re catching fish

on a colder river somewhere.

it’s seven but you’re held

between evergreen and snow.

and the windy

cheek-slapping world

is still out there

even when your wheels

aren’t flinging me through space.

so break me

down.

darkness

in the desert.

heat

and cold.

I’m nervous too,

I’m nervous

too.


so let it go;

like leaves let go

of branches. like the sky

loses

light.

I can almost

hear you reading,

book balanced

on your lap,

your hard clear

voice creeping

vine-like through

the membrane dark.

 

always

more thoughts.

no forest

for the faces.

do you know

a word that means

this –

late august and the blue

clouding over,

a fading

acceleration,

great stillness,
finite loss.


the space is tangled

between us
between us, birds are catching
on the half-moon sky.
birds are catching
on the power lines.
the space is tangled and the time
is an erratic
static
thing.

now the birds are flying backwards.
the birds
blown off in blackened
murmurations
are past. the time
pulled
soul-stitches
through December
looped
around the starfish June
settled
rows across
the cornfield March
and fluttered
loose ends
through October silk.

the space is tangled and
do you think
the birds
have seen that moon?
its raveled knotting
to the earth
and its tugging
tangles too.

 

Nina Djukic is a writer for the Weekender. Contact her at [email protected]