I tear out my bones and rearrange them while the woman at the counter cries silently into a lukewarm coffee mug. I wish I had the answers, I say, but the country is too cold, and the moon, pale and rambling, keeps blocking my view of the ocean. In the middle of a daydream, I still feel the pain of last December. Here she is at the playground, rocketing into a silence we ignored. You never listen to the birds on your sill, she says in a plaid jumper, covering scars with smiles and hallucinations. It’s a riddle I couldn’t solve until I became a part of the mystery. Cherry Street, August. This is my refuge, my hymn, where I imagine myself a hero dragging the dead from their graves, kissing them and praying they feel warm again. I see the moon in my sleep and she tells me of happiness, a place where our thoughts swaddle us instead of drown us and the sea is still behind our beating hearts.
About the Poet:
Jamie Brian is a pilot from Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Brainchild Magazine, 50-Word Stories, and The Poeming Pigeon.
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