LEAVING WISCONSIN by Morgan Martinez My ankles crack when I walk, and I find myself here: as quiet as the water dripping from the kitchen faucet. I’d like you to know that I dream of entering a forbidden part of myself. The part that screams into the tiniest nerve-endings, and the windows down the hall start to share the same familiar buzz. Did you mean what you said when the sun rose over the full moon? When I kept still, and you stayed home and the cicadas screamed so loud that I couldn’t hear you over the ringing of your neighbor calling you home. I am so close to being gone. I see a mountain, and imagine you sitting at the very top: staring at the hands of the clock that sits silently in the corner of your room. I want to be where you are. The way you lean into yourself feels like next week’s promise, and did you mean what you said when the sun fell flat and you laughed so hard, that it made both of our bodies shake? Did you mean it?
Published on Jul 30, 2017