missing light

Egypt, 1920s


Egypt, 1920s

Everyone’s chest
is a living room wall
with awkwardly placed photographs
hiding fist-shaped holes.
Andrea Gibson, Class (via unbloom)
after darkness

after darkness

This morning I listened to the first birds of spring.
Even those birds bear the weight of time on their shoulders.
I have come from the ends of the universe to tell you this. Right now
I am so present that my breaths feel like knives
and these recollections are as loud
as a stranger’s…


I drive to Baltimore because Kristen tells me
there is a dog park in her neighborhood with fake hills
and three locks on the gate, a sidewalk that hugs
the two left wheels of my car when I park next to it
or drive into it, or think about driving myself
into the harbor. I tell Kristen that I want to drive myself
into the harbor. I tell my mom I want to drive my car
into the building next to the left turning lane, she says,
just think about how difficult that’d actually be, think about
how much you would inconvenience the people waiting
on the crosswalk. I don’t think about it. I drive to Baltimore
because I could buy three boarded up houses and afford
to live in them, I could keep working at Olive Garden
and talking with my hands when people ask if we microwave
the breadsticks. We don’t microwave the breadsticks.
There is a girl at the host stand with a long brown braid
and a Russian accent and I think she misses home but we
don’t talk about it. Matt got fired for shooting heroin
in the men’s room, second stall. We also
don’t talk about it. We talk about table 314 and how
the baby keeps eating the blue crayons. We talk about
getting fucked up off tequila shots and the Colombian boy
who speaks in crisscrossed English asks me how much weed
I can get him for five dollars. We talk about getting high, talk about
how we talk when we’re getting high, I want to kiss two people
at Olive Garden but I don’t talk about it. Kristen tells me
how she sawed the legs off of her couch to fit it through her
Baltimore doorway. The couch looks like it has given up.
If I drive into the harbor, I’d bring the couch with me, give me a place
to rest easy when I’m sinking. I tell Kristen I’d rather drown
than go back home. She says I can fall asleep on her couch
if I want, I can fall asleep to the empty fuzz of her TV
that doesn’t have cable. Just sits on her wall like a work
of modern art. I don’t drive into the harbor. I cry into
Baltimore’s country station. Kristen texts Jesse
from the passenger’s seat, “If Lauren drives me
into the harbor, feed the dog twice daily, take her to the dog park
on Wednesdays, don’t sit on the fake hills where the dogs
piss the most, hang my clothing like a flag at half-mast
and kill the roaches with the spray
underneath the kitchen sink.”





Kim Simonsson