Abby Zieve
There was a frame and I found it. Wandered halfway through. Was shown your way of loving. This house has a name. In Little Pink, laughter lived. Do not measure the effort. Trust steady hands, sculpted brows. Denial lengthens the arc. Is there a difference. Between a nibble and a bite. Distinctions matter different when knotted by another.
Tangled until the window. November rode through cracks. Not quite shattered. Bucked against. Back-cracked. The figure of another. Tense broke the pace past. Bar beckons a promise. Debunks your hand on my thigh. Claw of memory caters. The taste of your tongue. Halted clutch of one night’s tempo. Steps cramp. The ledge leaps.
Generally, the instructions are vague. Chart what perishes. Find its theme. Do not taxidermy this devotion. Replace. Straight up love. And warmth. And tits. And honey. It’s me that’s changed. Not the void.
I stacked my shadows. Watched a woman touch her chest. Saw planets perform meaning. Leaned away from limbs. Burdened by light. Still. Softness sways into sound. A whistle under water. Is this movement or mimesis. Is this matter or fact. Is this life a pastime or a purpose. Next year I’ll know. Now. Perched on the stack. Feet dangle. Melancholia move me down.
Nothing to do. Just write bad and listen. And yes, I blame the news. Too bad. Was gonna write a masterpiece. Poach an egg. Do great things. Tomorrow and the rest. Nothing but enigma. Variations on this pulpy terror. Can’t see the damage yet. What I imagine. It marinates. Clings to my crest. Burns. The tongue I use for nuance. Doesn’t matter anymore. What it touches, already soured. I suck my teeth. The world puckers.
Peel the rind of fears forgotten. Like a wink. Without wonder. Like a ghost on a train. Fractal tenderness. Swathed in fog. Reach into it. The drains are clogged. The shocks don’t awe. I leave. The wrong kind of residue.
I find things to grip. Bring them into frame. An eight-minute yolk. That spiral staircase by the water. Try for cherry-coloured funk while time still moves against. My chest. What merges must end.