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Three Poems // Sedona DeBellis




Cosmos and Italian Bars


well, it’s really just like falling

too fast on pavement that’s just wet enough,

or laying on the grass when you’re drunk and your

head never stops spinning. it’s feeling like you’re broken.


and I really don’t understand you—

your concern that a part of me is missing

and the way you push your hair back from your face.

even if I did understand, I don’t think it would be different.


I eat a bar of chocolate and wonder

what to do here now. I might just sleep.

but your laugh echoed in my dreams last night.

I still don’t know how it happened.


maybe some chances aren’t meant to be given,

not twice, not even once.

fuck, I just knew I couldn’t.

and I hated myself for it.


I will bite my knuckles and tell them

about the way you look at me, always

perfect for a song. every written word

is starting to lead back to you.


on my last day,

let my knees fall in begging.

let every muscle in my body ache with you,

my favorite plague.



meditations while making lace jelly


i.

his green honda was lovingly named veronica swan

and always smelled like strong earl grey tea.

i held three sprigs of queen anne’s lace

in my hand, sweet clouds dancing absent-

mindedly in the space between fingers.


ii.

when i wanted to pick the single white flower

among the undergrowth, standing out on

the edge of where the woods and

the sand met, he did not let me.

instead, he grabbed my hand and pressed it

into the peeling white wood of the bench.

i wanted to have it for myself, keeping

watch beside my bed in the old

pepper-shaker-turned-vase that abbie stole

from the diner for me. he wanted it to be

there whenever he felt like coming back for it.


iii.

you’re farther than you’ve ever been.

feels like hell, they said.

and they were right.


iv.

i stepped onto the bottle of fireball

in the field behind the liquor store.

the plastic cracked beneath my shoes.

each step, another crack. all this

for a handful of flowers, to boil for hours

and turn into jelly. an empty bottle

of merlot, its jagged edge previously

ripped apart on the pavement, tugged

at my ankle, an impatient child.


v.

the purple-red flower in the center of the bloom

crumbled between my thumb and forefinger,

smearing dust like plums, like rust, like blood.



when you end up crying at cumbies (again.)


or maybe the threat is more ambiguous than that,

and i am wandering blindly through the aisle

next to the slushees, with nothing to look for

other than a space to take a deep breath.


i am wandering blindly through the aisle,

dragging my feet on the linoleum, finding

just the right space to take a deep breath and

lose the leftover smell of cigarettes in my mind.


dragging my feet on the linoleum, i find

the sound of every squeak to be intoxicating.

if i don’t lose the leftover cigarettes in my bag,

maybe i’ll have a reason to stay up late tonight.


the sound of every idea i find intoxicating

next to the slushees is nothing to look for.

i don’t have a reason to stay up late tonight.

or maybe the threat is more ambiguous than that.



AUTHOR

Sedona DeBellis is typically drinking coffee or wine with a book by her side. She hopes to continue writing and conquer the world.

PAINTING

"Certain" by Elissa Lincoln

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