the culpability of distance to burn a place by Micah Giraudeau

Categories poetry, submissions

blue sky was only sun. the kind that keeps you swallowing

and raining for the duration of walks or the number of dark needles between your hard toes.

warm water softens to let me pluck them from my insensitive skin,

the kind that tree roots had inscribed with a marred sense of justice.

 

cellophane — transparent materials or something i remember better and

impossible movements were inevitable in the economy of “way back thens.”

 

blood, purple, and sour vomit in my parent’s home: the second that i lived in, but the first that i remember.

now, i am remembering a daft haze surrounding a basically circular pedagogy

reminiscent of everything i knew to be true about these hands,

feet, and other parts (but too late).

 

white goblin non-warmth and wrapping paper under a tree contrast all too well in my mind.

wood bark and cicada shells were the rubbed relics

i never thought i would miss while

apples and iron were codenames for places cold strings binder.

 

missed years from the culmination of hours spent in respite with eyes fixed on the wall.

back to then: when every stick was a sword.

 

webcam frames shot with a blindfold to ambivalence translated

my favorite shows.

the amenity of read text on uniform days of warmth remind me of the saying:

you are what you eat, so keep eating when you’ve left.

 

the trees i ran my hands along are still there.

they sit around the fourth house on the left, after the right turn,

after the right turn,

after the right turn

after the left at the bridge, but it really depends on where you’re coming from.

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