I.
Ankles feel the pressure of father’s fingers,
so a child becomes a clock and falters
over the hands on a paper test, assuming
a seated position to confuse counting
as it becomes a shape. The clock
with its back to the wall has no
answers usable. It is time
for a glass-cased primrose flower to close
for the night. Numbers sit ordered under petals,
refusing to pry out of darkness
to form thin lines of ink that exist.
Twelve breaks backwards
again. Brunch is
in forty-five minutes; we
are celebrating your birthday late,
having lavender mandarin tea with
your empty seat. We clink
our cups, before smiling to the right.
“How’s the lamb?” dad asks.
“Dead,” I think.
You are no longer alive
to tell me
I took too long
to get ready, and that was
the reason we did not
get the good donuts.
II.
Both the chrysalis and the monarch in
the diorama have fallen.
The wooden leaves are torn. You sit under
my wings at night, grazing their patterns,
but you cannot touch me. Not now.
It is light toward the horizon,
but not everywhere; or the horizon
is dark, and the light
is above me.
The sky is not one color, and
I don’t want it to be;
black, purple, and blue.
There, a soft blue sweater is
folded onto the bed.
You wore a sweater, similar,
two Wednesdays in a row.
I slip it over my shoulders and
become you. We cry
against the bed frame.
Outside, two people use a ladder to
reach and change the hands
of a gray clock tower.
The clock’s face is still
devastated years ago
about what I cannot control.
The crows won’t tell me
how you feel about me;
they’ve never met you.
A Japanese Chin-Maltese sits on my lap,
her hind legs, perfectly balanced.
She looks out of the window,
smells around for spilled coffee.
I think of the way your mouth opens
before you let coffee inside of it.
The fireplace is gone now. People walk
through flowers on the wall.
A woman descends the staircase
holding an umbrella up over her mind.
ABOUT:
Kailie Foley is a 20-year-old poet who studies creative writing at Columbia College Chicago. Their poetry can be found in Impostor: A Poetry Journal, Full House Literary, Blue Marble Review, and Fools Magazine. They hope to convey their heart space through writing while it helps them heal. They tend to write about the grieving process, being queer, mental health, and nature. Their favorite poets are Ocean Vuong, Arthur Sze, Julia de Burgos, and Li-Young Lee. They wish that they were a mermaid for a living.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: Ruby Waters — Numbers
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