Poetry

Bulimic in G


I bend over the porcelain seat;
back arched, feet
planted and ready to release the buildup.
Voice Lesson prep like the scent of a
memory used to ring
inside the stall. The bathroom,
of Colburn Hall, with the best
acoustics on campus, was once a
retreat where I could warm
up before voice class.
Back then, I bent to set my
ribcage in position. I would rise
over fourteen measures, to stand
before the mirror and watch air
come into the crevices of rounded
flesh. Sharpie notes
on beige stall creeping
into view.



Tomorrow


If the sun falters
As it lays on its side
Ghost moons of the waters
Sway lying spirits to arise
If the clouds cloud clouds
As the rain rains its rain
Night’s keeper finds its soul
As the breezes breeze astray
All day – to dream of
Every night – I see them
Moments between
Sleep and starry skies
I blink. A tick of flickering time
I dream of every night
Passing past passed hours
Memory searches for the day
Enveloped in a bed of sunflowers
Packaged to be sent away.