Neighborhoods After Midnight by Jamie Brian

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.
Photo by Romain Kamin on Pexels.com

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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