carbon justwrite

No longer than branches, no deeper than roots, my fingers reach across this room and touch the strand of hair loose on your shoulder. Your gaze meets mine, your eyes dewy. My body, you tell me, was a mirror once. My stomach was the surface of a lake with no tides, your face reflected in my skin, in the crooks of my arms. I smell like the sun-parched end of summer, a smell that is almost smoke but has never been fire. A star, that daffodil, the book I borrowed from you, a pile of ash; there is really no difference, you tell me. Carbon, just carbon. The word unfolds on your lips and rests there. My fingers unfold from each other and try to show you my secrets. I am not carbon. I am bone china, transparent in the bright hour of noon, cloudy when your eyes finally stop staring down the horizon, daring the moon to rise again. Every night it does, and every night you look to me, grinning. Every night you sweep your arm up toward the sky and say Look! Look what I've done! I nod, my fingers folding into each other. I would tell you I'm proud. I would tell you you're stupid and that the moon rises because I breathe because of oxygen, but I am only carbon, a silent, distant star, a wilting daffodil, the unturned pages of this book, a pile of ash.

who is responsible for the suffering of your mother?

It started with an apple. They told me this when I was very young. They planted pictures of rounded hips, soft skin, seeds you can't taste because they're poison. I thought of old men on wrap-around porches in rocking chairs, full bushels beside them, a cup in each hand. They don't eat until their wives cook, hands dusty with flour, sweeping a bit of spilled cinnamon from the counter with two damp fingers. My mother cut apple slices for me to take to school in my lunch. They left the inside of the bag dewy, like breath on a spoon you pull out of the drawer smudged. I never ate my apple slices. The air turned them brown and soft. I thought of rust. I threw them away but kept the bag, folded it three times and brought it home, my lunchbox smelling of apples. On afternoons like this, I am planted. I have roots growing from poison to fruit, can not lift my feet without pulling some earth loose. A stranger told me once that I taste like blueberries. I looked straight through his eyes and wondered how he knew. In each of his pupils was an apple pie, the steam rising and leaving dew across his forehead. I thought about his wife, her flour-dusted hands, as his fingers reached toward my skin.

wish justwrite nightwrite writewrite

Reach into my pupils and pull out your lunch, dark as a lake beneath the reflections. Hold it between your lips like I would hold the stars between my fingers if I could, gently but without wavering because if you drop a star it falls and then all you have is a wish. I repeat empty prayers when everything is hollow. I trace my name over and over on your back with my finger, try to scrub away the holes in the walls, scour the same plates each minute because the air is filled with dust and I need something to be clean. In the midst of movement, I stop. The room is spinning and the sky is passing over my head. One half of my face is deep blue, and I see you get lost when you look at me. I want to be able to find the sun and tell you what time it is. I think I said this aloud once, but you didn't hear anything. You were folding stars into my skin like eggs into dough. I want to take in the shadow on the horizon and know how many hours I've been alive. I said this aloud once. You told me there's a constellation called the big dipper and it's like a spoon sinking in a lake and still believing it's empty. When I picture you, your lips are paused in the middle of words like "spoon" or "alone." I hold you between my fingers, gently, thinking of my wish.