By E.A. Midnight
we are sitting at the end of another pool / the soft space where a body slides into water / and i say that the act of uncovering / one’s skin / is not as simple as it might look / and you pull out your / combat tools / you are ready / to give bludgeoned bruised bidding a go / like pursuing this love is some kind of vision for you / crystal clear and fading / as i turn your necklace / back the other way / and you say that is a quirk of yours / and i say a quirk or OCD / and you unable to grasp / or touch / that physical nature / the unattainable body / the untouchable face / wet hair dribbling words / down the chin / that sideways lack of an answer / wondering where is the softness / in the ancient way one holds another / the body making inroads / to a new decision / and watching happiness spill / coffee onto the counter / that antique-walnut liquid mug-like splatter / and then not / and you watching me / looking for some kind of savior / in every body i touch / asking why don’t you just / give up on those grade school games / and dedicate your demons / to some different release / you sit asking me / over the table / who my body was / before you knew me / and the only answer / that makes sense / is a mess / and then you being quiet / under those starched shirts / don’t let your real laugh out / you are so certain / that they are all watching you / all waiting for you to slip / but honey, we don’t have all day / let them back molars shine / make a fool of the watchers / don’t listen to me though / what do i know / because i think of love / as being the act of making memory a tiger / and everyone is listening / waiting for something bad to happen / and i want to shake you / i want to scream don’t believe it / but you want this to make sense / and where i go when you are looking at me / is a ghost you can’t hold onto / braiding grass and hoping / it sticks / the thinness of the thing giving its body liquidity / so i make my words clear as water for you / if the sky is bleeding in the morning / don’t get on your ship / don’t call home / and ask yourself / do you miss your siblings / scattered to the wind / trash in a highway wind / the endless churn / toss and carry / but you, oh you / with your soft streaked body / i want to show you more than this / the blood coagulating now / on my fingers / because you rubbed your nose raw / and it pooled / in my hands / i am helpless / when you need me / i will hold this for you / as long as you need / or until i can’t / or till i don’t want to / because isn’t there a dent in everything / isn’t all metal some kind of collection tool / i think of truck beds / and back hoes / and storm drains / and hands / isn’t there a dent in all things worth considering / isn’t everything worthy also worn / that cobweb, lichen-covered, ramshackle hovel of our hearts / isn’t that worth saving / not restoring / not refurbishing / and isn’t this the dent that is in all of these dilapidated things / we cannot unbend it / and why would we want to / there is so much left in this dent to unpack / and yet there is nothing left at all / so i turn to you / dents and all / our talons facing the same direction / and ask / how much of love is seeing someone else’s mental illness as a quirk and not failure, not a dent, not something that must be fixed / you, as if waiting eons for this, say / if not some, then all.
E.A. Midnight is a neurodivergent artist specializing in multi-modal, cross-genre hybridities. She is a strong advocate for challenging the boxes creative bodies are put in. They are the author of the chapbook, mundane objects, published by dancing girl press (2024). She was Poetry Northwest 2022 Summer/Fall Presenting Series winner and the first-place winner of the HerStry 2023 Eunice Williams Nonfiction Prize. Their writing can be found in Heavy Feather Review, Inverted Syntax, tiny spoon literary magazine, Poetry Northwest, and other publications. A full list of her published pieces can be found on her website.
|Website|
losing our grip on purpose 