Poems & Illustrations: Part 2
*series from Lexington Line’s Spring/Summer 2022 Issue, pages 74-75
Check out the full issue here
why cooking is more fun than cleaning
Stuck together sweet cakes,
“You’re golden,” butter Cookies,
kisses, and savory dishes
like “You’re my person.”
I can’t cook anymore,
look through the cabinets for
anything.
Talking tastes sour.
Swallowing is barbed wire.
Yet, I have crumbs in my bed
they left behind.
I’ll pack them in a ziplock,
tuck them in my pocket.
They’re not gone—just misplaced.
I’m not lost, just making space
for new kitchen cabinets.
Mix-matched mugs, spoons bent in,
chipped cups topped with
paper towels to wipe up
spills from our kin.
if lust were long walks on the beach
We took breaths of
sunsets and choked
on butterflies to feel
alive. Neon gushed through
our insides, inflaming
ultraviolets. A forest fire.
But only the flowers burn.
Sweet desire, I’m tired.
for rent
The house was a passing
place. I extended the lease
two years too long. No room
for growing vines or brown paper
bouquets. No room for clothing
racks, sequins, or all-black silks.
No room for boxes
that never get put away.
I wanted a big closet
to pretend in. A dishwasher that
washes the chapstick off
green glasses. A washer to clean
the mud from my creased Jordans.
A big window. So I can see the world
that sits before them. So the gold can
watch over me. An invitation to dance.
Or to watch the rainfall,
carry me.
april
It’s 2 a.m.
They can only see with their fingertips.
Stipples of streetlight drip through
the blinds like falling stars.
They’re tangled in blankets belonging
to someone else. Their only concern
is whispering the language
they shared. No one else.
The crickets chirp in the April
night. Humming, humming.
They slept beside each other
entangled, erotic. But now,
estranged, out of sight.
Their language is dead.
Only faded scenes
and the pieces of past promises
scotch-taped together.
But 2 a.m., then, felt like forever.
no audio
Sometimes silence sounds like children playing on a playground. The sweet laughter and creaky swing sets, the sand in your shoes and your hair. You fell a lot. But who the hell cares.
Sometimes silence sounds like the ocean. The Atlantic at 6 a.m. in the month of June. Right at the edge of the water where the waves kiss your toes and you inhale the burst of first light orange.
Sometimes silence sounds like a heartbeat. But not your own. The one that made a tune with you. The bump electrifies your skin and deepens your lungs. But no more heavy breathing, only waiting, wanting, and leaving. back then it was self-loved someone symphony.
Sometimes silence sounds like you. How you talk behind your back. How you speak you’re not hungry but you say you want to spend your last $10 for the week on a burger. You say sweet nothings, you shout slurs about you, you whisper, “you look good today” faintly so that God can’t even hear you.
Sometimes silence sounds like everything all at once. Can you have that by tonight? When can you hang out? Have you paid for this? Did you schedule that? Cars, planes, people in the street existing and functioning, fulfilling their economic corporate needs.
Sometimes silence sounds like an old phone the one that hangs on the wall. Like getting a call from someone you weren’t expecting. You answer because you think it’s them but it’s not. You’re not rude so you stay and chat.
Sometimes silence is the wind whispering through your hair. The holes in your sleeves snagged from the fences. Walls you put up painted pink with each stained sheet. Strangled from cotton each thread sinks deep.
Sometimes silence is the buzzing of the lights on the walls, tucked on shelves and behind the window. It creeps in from the street. Comes in the door without invitation. It’s a pleasant unwelcome guest.
Sometimes silence is vacant. Rooms filled with dust. Neighbors to welcome you home. Old lovers with not much love at all. you put up your sign no vacancy no more.
Sometimes silence is a sunset. so bright and blissful you close your eyes and breathe in the now, push over the later and breathe out the before.
*artwork by Kally Compton
What was your favorite poem? Leave a comment below!