When the rouge cakes and crumbles,
the old powder smell dusts your skin
like the sweet of rotting apples
and home. Close the door. Fasten
on her grandma’s shoes. And sew
the fabric you ripped when the lead-
coated stillness grabbed you by
the ears, startled you. Don’t listen:
the tear of a mother’s cracked white
lips caught in combed sleek hair. Just
the rattling of leaves. It’s nothing.
There’s the pounding of the brush
against the page, you’ll never know
sounds exactly like the scratch of branches
against a windowpane. There’s no
glass here though. Just the every
which way branches and their rapid
approximation on the page.
Hardly enough. You can’t paint
the scratch of sticks and dirt on
your face. Even dabs of blue and
brown don’t catch the dull ache it
leaves behind. It just looks like a
shadow, the scrunched up disregard
of pain becomes nothing more than
concentration. The way flecks
of crackled leaves burn your nostrils
something the brush will never
understand. Paint-bruised knuckles of
a hand that presses down, holds
the body up. He sees the trees,
he’s mostly looking at the
white space nothing they want to hide.
say the name. just say it.
morning has come—breakfast:
one placemat, one egg. no one
says morning is the hardest time
each bite, the sound of teeth
vibrating on the fork echoes in
an empty, newly painted room
no sound but your own pulse
slow and steady in your wrist.
Eleni Erikson is originally from San Francisco. She currently works in the Republic of Georgia teaching English and organizing youth development activities in a local village. In addition to writing, Eleni loves exploring new places, learning languages, and singing rock ballads.
ISSUE:
F A L L
2013
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