this is a door without a latch. no opening, no closing, no jab to set a shoulder tight against and feel the serrated edge consuming the option to “enter” or “exit”. should I stay or should I go. not a question but a worry, concern, fear, dread, panic,
breathe breathe breathe
take two. refresh.
a body made of circuitous motion dreams my body is some non-euclidean geometry; hyperbolic. the mass of me – bones, dust, blood, waste – is invariable. my soul a light source observed from a vacuum. the analogy stands. the fantasy is not exacting, not draining, not a painful play of push-pull power postulates. my hands don’t bleed from trying to hold myself while something other strips my thoughts to remnants and mad gamble mumblings.
I am dotted blood, scattershot, a ritual to read the ready limbs by. dare we dream of spring? chewing tea leaves between my teeth to stop the future in its path. I have always felt the world turning beneath my feet. motion sickness edging into that cavern beneath my chest, motion sick dying light there is a sharp-spirited darkness spiraling within. I can live in darkness but should darkness live in me? let the questions ooze away, dapple pavement, soak cement.
there is a sweat slick against my palm, no traction, no grip, just something smooth that slides like all my flesh on the inside slides over to make room. solid reality dampens the undersides of my fingernails. the bottom of a river, silt sick, life rich, something here will grow. shiver-shudder and hear the clanging backdrop of my black hole heart, all consuming, already consumed. I can’t listen to the silence without the bell-like certainty that someone hurts someone in the power juncture of warm and wet.
don’t crawl inside my body and steal my bones. what can I offer instead?
what I forage for is forceful but what I get is generous. breath over my breath, inhale exhale all in time, metronome. when did I learn to accept soft things? there is something to grab when the sweat dries and a heartbeat to hear and decipher. who knew there were bodies in this snow drowned, airless place? who brought this heat and touch, this hold, this weight? there are letters down the curve of spine, the vertebrae spell poetry line by line. if I let my fingers wander perhaps they’ll learn to read.
what can a body say?
a sigh of relief.
Shana Creaney is a born-and-raised New Yorker who likes strong tea, bad weather, and avoiding the dentist. She loves science fiction and fantasy, modernism, and grandiose existential crises brought about by the most mundane things. She is currently working on her MA in Literature at CUNY City College. Other writing can be found in the August 2016 issue of Sword and Sorcery Magazine and monthly in Foreword Reviews.