by Anna Leonard
Somewhere in my timeline is a boy in a ball,
rocking delicately on his bones, the carpet dank, saying,
Everything is a body. I remember again: my brother,
gripping knees and gasping flies in the humid summer loft
with its animal smell. I think of swimming, of fish,
knives gutting: who decides what stays inside?
–
If I go, there’s no yelling. I wept. I think I prayed.
Hands together, you know the way, but I’m still
asking. Can you tell me? Does glowing come,
after? Will he live in breath? In a sideways
room bathing the dog? It matters, it must matter:
the song that’s sung. I think I’m praying.
–
I always knew. Everything is a body. He was scared,
of requests, scared to be saved, so terrified
of Heaven and Good God, light fixtures, fixers,
a bright, clean space: so exposed, naked in the window.
No, Jimmy, everything is a window. Forget the body;
reach, like a plant, and towards a star, like a shepherd.
–
Doors off hinges, thighs sticky in the pews, Mother,
calling me to see if I’m home, and I’m home.
Is it true that it’s warm? Is it true that you’re somewhere?
Is there somewhere? Can I see it through the glass?
Three clicks, routine tapping, OCD, there’s no place:
will stillness restore? Is this a dream?
–
Yes, everything is a window; everything is running,
but maybe we are all bodies: temporary, pulsing.
Maybe the story ends. The boy, he ends, too:
no promises unkept, no laughter in the hall.
Maybe the marbled sky survives.
Maybe forever. Maybe it is forever.
–
Maybe he can find the way.
Anna Leonard is a poet, musician, and artist currently based in Richmond, VA. Writing serves as a vulnerable exercise in her dedication to sincerity and peace-seeking. Her poems can be read in Eunoia Review and The Rising Phoenix Review, and she has several songs available to stream on Spotify, Apple Music, etc. She shares more of her writing and upcoming shows on her Instagram: @annale0nard.
Emerge Literary Journal 