poem
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My love is shelf stable.My heart is best before sealed,for an infinite future. The apparent stagnation is really the exaltation of immortality,the way a feeling can remain at its prime until necessary,the bounty firm against the cheek, waiting. Waiting for an undetermined moment where the seal breaks,where the sand begins to bead down the glass, where you
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How bittersweet beginnings are,because the taste of the fatal end,is still fresh on the tongue. But,
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my hands,from which i divine with.to caress a glossy deckand trust that they know when to pull a sword or a cup. palms up in my lap during quiet morning musings, to invite stillness and knowing into my days.
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To porches, for carrying the heavy late nights and the bountiful early mornings, for the oak to hold our treads, to cradle our sorry existences, to brace us under the lumens. a window isn’t enough.
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The eyes you have,when you experience change,wet like a newborn animal,darting and buzzing as they move through the nameless, versus the eyes you have looking at familiarity, glossing over similarity,running the same current over and over,until there are no more sparks. What happens between those sets of eyes?When does it die, the wonderment?
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The way grief pours into you,thick and rich like molasses,sealing the loss with sticky solemnity.
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I wish you had hurt me more. Or, in a more obvious way.
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Hope courses through my veins,but one nick and it empties onto my skin.
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I gave up all my childhood relics too early. I refused my dolls, my stuffed animals, my notebooks full of novel ideas, to swallow maturity instead. I was sooner than ready ushered into adulthood, to wear the mark of maturity ripe on my flat chest. Every “you’re so mature” proclaimed from an adult singed it deeper into my flesh. The
Lashanda Forsberg 