communion
a glimmering scale casts a prism
of allegiance
like a clock, ticking,
punctuating the silences with rotten tendrils
of boredom
that artificial piety looks good on you
it’s all just glitter spilled in an infinite inkwell anyways
the sticky fingers of the anonymous pulling sensation
teething at the soles of your feet–
do these shoes make me look enlightened?
callused compasses, needles awry
all flutter to the pulse of those ghosts
not given time to properly spruce up their graves
today a monk took a photo of me
on his ipad
i do not feel enlightened
the world doesn’t revolve around me but it feels like it does
if I die today,
will my roommates
eat my groceries in the fridge
or will they sit there
rotting
like some sort of grave site
you like to say
that you are six feet tall but
you are really
5’9
with ricotta cheese ambivalence
pulsing through your veins
i wanted to plant queen anne’s lace
in the garden
when you said
it grows better wild
what I heard was
these poptarts expired in
2008.
certitude
i want to lay on you like a blanket
and smother all your sadness out
with my fibers
all beautiful things are silent
like trees and flowers and photographs
it doesn't matter if you tip toe
the land mines under the flower beds will still explode
i wish I could be silent
and beautiful
chalk outline
don’t forget to memorialize
every piece of gum that you chew
and spit onto the sidewalk
falsehoods can be starling
when they are just lustrous enough
to believe in
and if you choose to believe
if you believe you have a choice
a microscopic flickering–
a candle snuffed out by the very
hand that you once trusted
the contusion is yours and
the hollow feeling that
replaced the bleed is nothing
but a pyre to your incompetence
Alexandra Wuest is a writer and poet based in Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in Reality Hands, Fanzine, htmlgiant, Mr. Beller's Neighborhood, and Hobart, among others. Find her on Twitter and tumblr.