By: Chloe Ford
Winter’s eve. Wind haunts
the eaves invisible somewhere
beyond my black bedroom
window. Each piece of furniture,
tonight, a specter: encroaching and
hungry. Each breath stings
of the time before breath, the inevitable
return. I wait for my mother’s
headlights to stroke the frozen
driveway like a hand across
a troubled forehead. Each gust
mimics the sound of her arrival,
but falls short–
her absence crashes against
my rigid ribs. I nudge the cat
asleep at the foot of the bed,
half expect her to be stone.
I slip a finger into my-
self, spine curved cryptic as the word
queer. The grass beneath me forgives, though I didn’t
ask. I probe the question there. I stir
the flood—free and fertile and direction-
less. Cars screech vertical down the narrow road one way,
one way, but I’m all kinds of spreading
I’ll let the wordless animal in the wood watch
my walls melt, hip-lift away from too much
angular architecture. Don’t fence me. Imagine
dimensional desire, always doubling and suspended
in possibility like a tossed coin. Shelter
the yearn for a star’s white hard shoot through night’s cave and
for the luminous circle of the moon like a heavenward hole.
The simultaneity. Nothing’s a lie.
My desire doesn’t die, doesn’t kill. It births and
it births, and I’m borne and I’m born. I’m tonguing
the horizon, and I’m lung-ing the horizon
as the plural air swarms, as the woodpecker’s
thousand feathers thrust and
blur, chip away at a stubborn trunk
to reveal the fluid underneath.
Chloe Ford has been crafting poems since she learned to write. She currently resides in Portland, Maine and is pursuing a master's degree in Library and Information Science so she can support youth in their exploration of written language. Her poetry has been published in a few small journals.