august
waves cracked open on the sand like eggs
the summer we spent in the margins
of a landscape, watching Psyche
get her toes done.
tell me
did you mean to be gone
frequently
or to master
eating alone
in uniform ?
the postcard i sent you
saying the clerk at the museum gift shop
has buzzed his Dali mustache down
came back. it was august and
the day i left and i smelled cinnamon
and heard eggs frying
in an empty Ruby Tuesday’s at the airport.
i shuddered once
and something bowed
its head
like a beast.
witnesses
rain comes
to collect the city.
outside
the roads are smeared
in stoplights, blinking
back at us.
no one is awake but me
and the girl who never lifts
her feet, her voice so soft
you have to lean in
to taste it. her breath is thin
as her arms and sour. she says
I’m afraid this wall
is absolutely calm.
I’m afraid this wall
will be your undoing,
and you’ll be in the center of it and
my god, you don’t know.
Editor's Note: "witnesses" has been published previously in FORTH Magazine.
Jessica Lange is a writer living in Los Angeles. Her work has been featured in FORTH Magazine.