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
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.
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.
you’re farther than you’ve ever been.
feels like hell, they said.
and they were right.
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.
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.
Sedona DeBellis is typically drinking coffee or wine with a book by her side. She hopes to continue writing and conquer the world.
"Certain" by Elissa Lincoln