by L.N. Quinn
I practice breathing with the dawn wind. I can’t
take my eyes off the ceiling
for at least half an hour. My neck screams
into the pillow of my brain. I finally rest myself
against the glowing spear of the morning
that has fractured the barricade of my window.
Nights are spent navigating a labyrinth
in reverse, wondering what it would be like
to be someone else. I cultivate entire lives
in my mind only just to cleave them open. Imaginary
bodies on the slab of my skull. I am trying to decode
joy through dissection. Reverse engineer happiness.
I retrace my steps to the drafting table, decipher
my next move: wrecking the constellations.
Pull them apart, realign their light
with the gravity well of my future. What is it like
to be a moth? Can angels offer their kisses
for comparison? Unfold the new blueprint.
As the past recedes, the problems should only wane.
Instead, they cycle like the tides.
From what water remains, the glaciers can’t be
reconstructed. If I am made of math how am I
so unbalanced? Provisional fictions resolve
into some derivative of a new day.
The meteorologists augur a storm is brewing. The rain
will crackle, like my bones, against the rooftops.
Right now the clouds are so far, so distant,
so forgettable. They will learn in a few hours
how to arrange themselves, to be seen, heard, felt,
rumble. In the bedrock of my flesh.
I hazard no refuge from the tempest. I prepare
the wingless hope of my ruined frame. I hold it
in my hands. It is time to let go, to be
more love than custodian. I worry
about its disappearance. Where will it go?
Who will protect it? What shape will it take?
L.N. Quinn (they/per/pers) is an author, parent, and spouse in the Pacific Northwest of the United States. They draw inspiration from the diverse landscapes and experiences of time lived in the Great Plains and deserts of the Southwest. Per work has appeared in t’ART and Acropolis Journal. When not writing, they enjoy photography, composing music, and collecting vinyl.
Add your first comment to this post