Silence (An Index)
my friend Shamala at the window, the egg-colored wall, Saj in the shower, my mom in the kitchen with the three glass bowls, never used, the shallow sink, the old woman reads the magazine in the museum basement, hands shaking, fingers follow words, my callow sympathy, I am coming to be everything I hate, the coffee and the marzipan, the frequent checking, the feigned interest, the quiet but not all-knowing faces of iguanas, crackers with nothing on them, not simply because, three times as many mornings spent in recovery, Hilary, standing with a sandwich, stupid red scarf, I loved her, the way people love their shoes, an agreeable nod, a tree building itself up again, build yourself up, there was once a fire here, at which point we all ran and hid, at which point the roots started splitting into wires lighting up the ground, ash blowing silt, all ash fails to cover me, so humid inside me, my old street, low hanging branches, where we used to watch the worms inch down, Shamala on the stairs, swinging under beams, the prayer on the wall, the poem on the wall, the old light lantern, pointing toward the floorboards, the low, frequent buzzing, someone dancing, something caught
Alexis Almeida lives in Denver. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in TYPO, Divine Magnet, The Volta, Flag + Void, H_NGM_N, and elsewhere. She is an assistant editor at Asymptote. Her chapbook of poems, Half-Shine, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press, and her translation of Florencia Castellano’s Propiedades vigiladas is forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse. She is the recent recipient of a Fulbright grant and will be traveling to Buenos Aires in the spring.
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