Blue Bonnet Review

A Literary Journal Featuring Poetry, Fiction and Nonfiction by Talented Writers Around the Globe

A literary journal featuring poetry, fiction and nonfiction by writers around the globe. 

it takes shape

Elena

i'm sailing. mornings i learn about the false hierarchies of love. days i just formed my manuscript, spring all written about
in the suburban snowy streets and
streets smell like how chocolate is made and the men's charcoaled faces stare indignantly and all of the women look like that one woman you met once at a resort the one with the dyed cropped hair in her early forties who is a friend of your parent's friend and the snow magic melts as soon as it falls
and every way i turn the suburb
is colorfully
the same so you forget you want out
until you see the foreign graffiti and the couches everywhere in the tunnel bottom
and the afternoon trains moving in mechanical slumber maybe just dreaming their enclosed light across the rails because i am at home
in myself and so resistant to waking mornings
in how i miss all my dears, my porch, half-lit and burning
eternal, the bridges all of the great lions have been carved into and the other worlds, my true mountaintop but that is
living it seems
and nights i wander with the youth here. they are leery of past continents, some are so sadly guarded it makes me but other times there are lit eyes and understandings.
afterwards always the renegading tide, ardour up-sunk in retrograde, rafted to the sea, love succumbs. i miss you like a buried body misses the first frost the bones a wishing well for the
sparkling intangible winter dream dredged deep
or like tangerines in a drawing room bowl after the whole
house has been flooded underground
it's just rotten citrus stink and the wooden parliament of rafters
groaning into the rabidity of high water
and of course i miss you like vanilla flowers on the stolen tin of foreign seasoning like maybe one day
all the illustrations will be able to exhale themselves out
of that one long stationary breath they've been
taking, a history of absence is softly unrelenting, perishes early but then returns to plant flowers on his wife's grave, an old gentleman
but maybe i just miss you like a dead fish hanging upside-down in the elderly neighbor's back garden pond
and passerby wonder perversely if it's
a premonition or just another reminder
that we're all illusory things i see you in my eye and i am in yours (i was in yours but am no longer)
still you're in my mind and i wish i could sleep without your absence accompanying me
ever-deeper into dreams, unbreathing, the gills of memory wrinkling and
sinking upwards into the brief opacity of reality but barely,
as with first contact, we come back around the echoed heart,
center in our own deadweight.