Sorry for the lack of a post today (or yesterday, technically. Wednesday. You know). I (S.) had my last day of classes for the semester. Excuses, excuses. To make up for it I’ll be posting at least one additional time next week.
Hey everyone. We hope you’re staying warm (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least…). Anyway…
Over the next few weeks C. will be taking a break to take care of some things so I’ll be working with guest photographers or writers. I’ve already been in touch with two wonderful ladies to take some pictures but thought I would open an invitation to all of you. If you would like to write or photograph for JOP during this interim please contact me, either via the linked email on appleshavewings.com or my own personal tumblr (which is also linked there).
We hope everyone is enjoying the season and surviving finals if you have them!
Cheers,
S.
You like things labeled; neat and organized, in lists you can count on. Rather than let birds fly around your head, you catch them and fill their light bodies with sand, mounting them to walls with cards that tell their latin names. Acrocephalus bistrigiceps means nothing to me, nothing like I love you, come here would, or even I’ve missed you.
You don’t know in which glass case to keep me so I try to tell you I don’t need one. I’ll stay without nails through my feet, my wings glued down. I’ll change my latin name to yours. I’ll be a part of your family.
Picture by C., words by S.
You cannot blame him for the words
you no longer believe in.
The nightmares, the startling awake,
the enveloping fog around your head
even after daylight has swept in.
It isn’t as if he’s done this to you.
People change. Sometimes slow
like seasons, sometimes quick, like
the sound of a coin hitting the floor.
Tails, you say. There’s a reason
you’re not the gambling type.
The too much talking,
the not enough talking.
You start to write a letter
but can’t get past “goodbye,”
and then falter again when deciding
where in his bedroom to leave it.
Inside one of his work shoes,
in another language. Something is wrong
here. Someone unfolded something
the wrong way. God, how you’re tired
of the “wrong way.” How do you sink
the boat in winter, brush the snow
off the pier? There’s only one answer.
You tried very hard.
Two hours into Maine
and there isn’t a single human sound.
The air is wet and salt
pummels my senses.
I don’t want to go back.
I say this often, about many things.
He fits into the scenery
and I consider
what we’re escaping. I can’t find
the correct nouns. Perhaps verbs.
It isn’t as if these are new ideas.
Even at home, on cobblestone sidewalks
my feet itch and my brain starts shouting
impossible things about leaving.
It knows all about direction,
about opposite points on the map,
but want
is a selfish monster that knows
no logic. Even on its quiet days,
it is always there, whimpering
and tugging on loose clothing.
It’s either now or after winter.
Am I unhappy here,
or is unhappiness now overflowing
into all spaces?
There are flowers everywhere,
the carpet, the drapes, the bedspread.
It’s beautiful,
but it isn’t ours.
