By: Sammy Moore
namaqualand
october chill melts into morning
peel back the sleep from our eyes
as shouting fills our ears
two battered bodies huddled under trench coat blanket
barely shielded cracked sliding glass door
a corner under a table the only space left
unconscious bodies pools of vomit various styles of refuse
strewn about hosting their own misfortunes
we slipped out the back door shoeless wrecked
before he could know we were there still shouting
and we end up here as we so often do when there’s nowhere else to go
leaves all blown away grass a faint tint of leftover green fading no snow yet
splashes of sunshine the last kiss of warmth a gift to sustain us through such a harsh winter
green and purple woven blankets from those metal shows we went to that summer
limbs twisted together sharing energy sustaining each other
protected in full view
vertical movements quite limited slight shuffles mainly rolls
counting stars at noon forgetting our names finding new ones
embodied geometry making new shapes a constant point of contact
within our patch of safety from things less dangerous: just poisonous grass tone deaf monsters
singing beat boxing killin it
moustaches of our hair like we did as children
one of those times our soul reconnected reunited released
one soul delicately trimmed into two halfers
with the marks to prove it
photo after photo immortalizing the moment
warm surprisingly warm warm enough to stay for hours
close to you to everything we’ve always been
dried blood flecks off shared blood the sun sinks prematurely
we shake last night from our clothes scrape it from under our fingernails
sunshine sneaks peeks through shifting leaves
the night before you became my guide through the heavy the wrong
grounding sinking roots deep
over here saving lives and i will follow you forever
descent
slight sting in the nostrils
on the backs of shallow breath
failure and saffron burnt lilies
like her mother likes
antiseptic and clutch spirit
stark slow compression
thick air
wrestled absent vessel
under trailing fluorescent light
gasped air turned acid
souring from the inside
pin prick tingling grey lips face
muscles seized from toenail beds rolling
to sunken eyelids
digits curled down and tight gripping
nothing and everything
aching thirsted infant veins
tubes and wires kink and delay
heavy blink light footsteps
regret
Sammy Moore, a Northern Colorado poet and teacher, is a recent MFA graduate and Anselm Hollo Fellow of the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa University who continues to chase the strange across darkened landscapes, in hopes of finding loving landing spots for her work.
Lover of cats, bats, and all things bumping in the night--teacher, thinker, and aspiring therapy-rabbit guardian.