By Emmi K. Blake

Artwork by Alli Rowe

---

Past

 

It took until night for his bottle to clink empty,

the ice to liquefy, them all to lie destitute—dead soldiers.

His whiskey tongue spoke sour; I coaxed

the hours to blackout,

cowered and watched cartoons.

 

Present

 

Peppermint tea steeps beside ambience.

I  fidget with words; feeling

recoils under the surface of dissociation

as the fresh leaves drift, confined.

The way the mint sinks is my mimic;

it doesn’t drown, but it tries for a while.

 

Thumbing the thin rectangle and the staple

holding it, I want it to be more filling.

It drops from my skin, runs sleek against the side.

 

I prepare for it to burn my throat awake.

It might find something

in the darkness of my trachea—the cells there.

I read somewhere that cells hold memories;

maybe, they could learn to speak.

 

Future

 

Solitude will tell me things I never want.

They will not ever be what I think;

instead they will wear a child’s eyes and a shroud of

dust and cobweb.

They will put a hand over mine, guide the ink,

bleed something sapphire.

---