by B. Anne Adriaens
A pile of sobs sits on my chest and refuses to shift
as I shuffle my notes—like a ritual on a loop—
until rectangular leaves alight and scatter,
whiteness stained with the raw litter of
unborn sentences, muddled and fragmented.
I’m your mislaid egg, your changeling child.
I try to loosen the straps, unravel the ties,
and steel myself to make sense of this,
the things I never said to you—or him.
See, my hands are the same shape as his,
yet now start twisting like yours. That stern
downturn of the mouth, I got from you too,
and the urge to nap, like a repeat prescription
for escape—innocuous exercise in suicide.
But when one of your wedding photos emerges
and shows that faint meerkat-like surprise
in the way you glance at the camera—I see
the ghost of my future smile in yours.
B. Anne Adriaens’ work reflects her interest in alienation and all things weird and dark, as well as her concerns about the environment. Her work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies, including Poetry Ireland Review, Acumen, Abridged, Ink Sweat and Tears, Skylight 47 and Popshot Quarterly. Her long poem, “The crow’s vision”, is due out with Ballast Journal in October.
Emerge Literary Journal 