Clouds, Capsules, Cats and Catapults

I think it’s cute how gullible death thinks I am. She slipped me an extra Mucinex and I unwittingly took it. An allergy pill. Precious. With no one watching but the cat, I decided: what the hell. Up and up I went until the fur from my tabby’s coat diluted into a sea of golden clouds. The best part? We were alone and we were aware. We relished in our omnipotence, not taking one image in our eyes’ masterpiece for granted. I called my friends with an elevated voice and verbal swagger. They wouldn’t believe where I was. But that’s just the thing: not only did they believe me, they were just there and I didn’t even notice them. How unobservant of me. For the first time in centuries, I said “oh well”. Those words came flying out of my mouth like knives at the devil’s head. And so I safely descended. And descended. And descended. And there he was, unscathed by my daggers. He was comically typical from the fur to the grin. Obviously I laughed in his face when he extended his hand to me, a smooth, white capsule cradled in his palm. I took the pill and headed towards the nearest trash can, but I couldn’t find it. I just kept sinking. That was no Lucifer I saw, just death’s cheerleader. And that sky we soared on earlier was just there to be a catapult downward. I was so low; surely I made it to death’s residence by now. She was nowhere to be found. It was just me alone with that pill and no pocket to put it in. I giggled at just how obvious the trap was. That said, there was no exit in sight. Then I recalled growing wings earlier. My idle hands were growing tired from gripping that pill. Checkmate, right? It’s never that simple. I would scout corner to corner of this black abyss before falling for such puny tricks. And so I did. It’s a fun story, right? I’ve been memorizing the words so that I can tell it perfectly once I escape this pit, my hands still clasping my emergency exit.

runs & run ons

you can keep the extra flashlights, all the stolen salt and pepper packets, the dish soap already opened on the counter. i would like my tights back, but i suppose i can mourn them the same way i’ve mourned everything else.

Crying about a problem makes it small, writing about a problem makes it pathetic-- it’s all in the hitch of the hypothetical reader’s eyebrow, this you to creation? I have never felt stupider than I did standing unnoticed behind you, bare-legged and awkward, eyes fixed on the ladder climbing up the back of your calf as I reached for a pen to take down the details before I forgot them. I know that it’s ridiculous-- I am not supposed to be keeping score like this. I know better than to wring a poem out of every last moment just so I can live in it a little longer.

the opaque black tights that i wore to my graduation, that you borrowed to hide your tattoo, whose absence i only notice when i have forgotten to shave, are not worth a poem--

They aren’t worth the $6.00 it will take to replace them, but I will pay if it means I can get dressed in the morning without thinking of you, if it means preventing the canonization of that first chilly Tuesday where I stood at the mirror wondering how exactly I was meant to leave the house in this state.

The Blue Night

Taylor Deville Photography Class of 2023