Shadows and Bed Sheets Blur My Memory OR Watching the Sunrise with Alejandra Pizarnik

Parker Logan

             I’m wrapped in the concept of roller skates, the sound of tiny wheels over wood floors, and
e-boy earrings, the DJ only playing vibes and low-key hits. It’s late skate night. It’s 2019. It’s
Tallahassee floating in the clouds, glazed in rain.

             The hurricanes. How much water did you take? Lightning flashes through the blinds and in
the living room. We pass around a glass bottle, our faces lit by the candles we kept for other
situations, exaggerated like emotions molded from clay, kiln dried and hardened around the lips,
throats gulping at the only hope we could afford to purchase. 

             Cottonmouth. I’m not allowed to drink water, so I count the tiles in the hospital while a lady
takes my vitals at midnight. It’s midnight. I still hate Louisiana. I’ll never forget the blood lady, who
came much later, headphones in, saving me one militer at a time.

             Thirty different jaws form the letters L-O-V-E, curling their tongues like waves in the ocean,
caving their throats like geysers, lips chapped by the teeth that contort themselves into pearly little
promises. Can you see the imaginary houses? The bed post? The night stand? The trail of blood
leading back to you and me?

             How many life lines on a palm can we read? Here’s the one that says I’ll be happy. Here’s the
one where it gets cut short. It says I’ll have five kids. I spit out a swimming pool.

             Here’s the towel and make-up wipes. Girl, dry your face. No person who’ll climb your body
like they're scaling a mountain is worth running mascara. Messy boys. Messy, messy life. How do you
cure a heartache? With candles? With wine?

             So, like a lady in a house in the heart of a bird, we see the sun and go back inside. At least
there’s the promise of tomorrow night, and the pale, crescent moonlight.