disposable; this place becomes an entry; more of the same
By: Brittany Rowell
disposable
this letter is a few lines daily: it seems this swallowed single mind is searching
if only I could arrive as quickly as the station in the window of the express
meanwhile, I tunnel through the sewers of the city if this is redemption why do I
bother at all plays
trains don’t arrive, only people
a house plant family where change is slow so there’s always time to save
dumb cane & aloe prefer a drowning, then after, to starve for days
& there goes the eastern light which rises on dumb cane’s leaves like prances en
pointe
by drowning, I mean a binge
to starve, I mean to weep
I have yet to find god in herself, yourself or myself but there is god in these
beloved succulents
trains don’t weep, only people
a mind is simply fragments of things read and not read
I turned my bedroom closet into a reading place stacks of books green pillows of
plush & white walls
This may be my first memory— the light when hitting purple beads
I am trying to finish, to write it all
those doors like an accordion the wheel broken at the top
& they were gray
time lost on a train, speckled floor, reflection of the silver pole, my hands, my
arms, crossed at the shins like a bow
a man in sneakers writing his next great: a cradled notebook, as if something
could matter more than air
rock back and forth a tall stem of grass, a blade
approaching bikes through a red light make me skittish but I will stand on the
yellow as a train pulls in
gray as in, a lack, a fallen bookmark which becomes an earmarked page
Is it because the train would be brief, swift like a bullet?
emergence: an underground train is suddenly on a bridge
when she took me to pierce my ears I picked the blue ones, squeezed my mouth
tight, clawed each knuckle
Look dad, aren’t they pretty?
I sat across from him at a table a year ago—so, tell me what really happened.
gray as in, a sad image, letterings etched and erased
the other each word I am writing
The elevator of my building and the train doors sing the same pitch: on a line in a
gale of wind.
I think about things until they go numb, memory, that is
I am only scratching, whether face in ceramic or plastic, just above the surface
skin perforates skin— stop— no— each word I write
I see it, too, feel it as a gun puncturing a hole in my ear or a shoelace around my
throat.
Memory, that is.
this place becomes an entry
I find myself spoiled
by the imagining of an aperture
in opaque glass I stand & wait
while the shower liner becomes soiled
my sitting bones rest on my heels which rest on the fiberglass slick with water & scum
maybe this is how I die: a little tug, the rod, my skull
maybe this is how I die: a body folded in on itself like a paper crane
maybe this is how I die: avoidance
a disgustingly bright green dot moves across my iris
I rest my case
grow bigger then smaller
& look up to the rain
ask— did God invent fetal position?
yes— the closest thing held is one’s knees in solitude
by solitude I mean this place becomes a glass case
by solitude I mean the past is in this poem
sometimes I wake only to orient myself like a dog
& call it exercise
I am one in fifty
but wait— just long enough for me to finish
more of the same
a smiths record playing, halfway through, housed in glass
a mind spinning housed in 3am
the things we stay awake for
dead yeast at the bottom of wine are lees
& the 10 suicides the george washington bridge sees a year are dregs
what remains leftover— the bottle, the sea
the smell of an old book
& of old wood
the things we read
your face ambushed in a scotch glass
mine ambushed in a pillow case the ends tied tight
—barriers
my skin cells which are dying
a pen running out of ink
more of the same
grinding my teeth
& binging
enamel begins to eat itself
thank god for my daily bread
thank god for these words
I’m alive
Hailing from North Carolina, Brittany Rowell is a Brooklyn-based poet and dancer currently in the writing program at The City College of New York. She is the recipient of The David Markowitz Poetry Prize and The Dortort Family Undergraduate Prize.
"All of these poems are a part of a larger piece entitled, 'atrophy,' which explores the communication of trauma, depression, and eating disorders."