|
[scraps] counting the ribs of blue whales, of beds, of brackish.
by Eli Skipp
the rungs of this bed feel like ribs rattlin' 'neath her own while she sleeps and she
counts them one-a-two and imagines herself spread across the heaving chest of a beached
blue whale all alone. she has a penchant for certain things, like animals and people
that are much muchly bigger than herself, like screaming without ever making any noise,
like having to apologize for wanting and not wanting, and for pressing her fingers into
peoples' rib grooves anyways.
when he shares the bed with her the center of the rungs pushes like a sternum between
them and pushes them aside. innit though, he tastes to her like garbage and lordy do
she love it, how bitter brackish blackish-brownish the flavor never fails to ferment
memories in its smell. she picks years for it that it could describe:
here, 2006 who fought all the time not for anything at all, not for nobility or
honor or for her love, here, 2005 with the funny name and the funny clothing who
drove five hours to sleep in her front yard at five a.m., here, a voice whispering at
her in the drunken dark on the cusp which used the word "perfect" and the word "we"
altogether in a stream.02/03/2009 Author's Note: i'm making a point to throw these out and hopefully they grow on me later. i keep intending to come back, but never do.
Posted on 02/03/2009
Copyright © 2024 Eli Skipp
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Jared Fladeland on 02/05/09 at 10:48 PM I saw a lot of myself in this. One, an attachment to random moments of the past that come back unprovoked. As well as the bed rungs. My bed growing up was like this one. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 02/05/09 at 10:48 PM Well, if you don't, you still have some good writing here. It does feel a little raw though, a little unfinished. Maybe, that's what's best. |
| Posted by William Brunk on 09/30/09 at 09:58 PM fantastic.
wonderful free flow of penchants, i loved this one. |
|
