poetry

For S.L.V.

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We were sitting at the corner of miserable, the streetlight flickering on and off like a soon to be dying firefly

We sat cross-legged — Indian style, meditating on our raucous thoughts twisting like television chords

The old black-and-white kind with alien-tinfoil antennas

The picture in our minds was crackly-fuzzy, then turning Technicolor rainbow blocks

When you know the programming has been interrupted for a very important message

But it was just cars whizzing by with their horns blaring rude and demanding to turn down the street first

Like just by honking louder you could get there that much faster

And once you’ve gotten to said destination, what awaits you?

What did you nearly run over to rush over to?

In such a rush to get nowhere, just to another corner of another street

But perhaps the streetlights aren’t fading on that side of the block

Perhaps there are some colorful neon lights buzzing like fruit flies over dumpsters

Maybe there are musical notes dangling over grocery stores to welcome you inside

Jars of things to fit all your pleasures

Perhaps that is a sufficient enough reason to rush

But we were sitting on the corner and we didn’t have enough reasons

Enough belief or faith, and maybe that’s immoral

And maybe the telephone cables have enough electricity

To shock us and we’ll recoil

And we’ll stop making baseballs out of greasy tinfoil

But for right now we have pigeon feathers

Twirling between middle and forefinger

To tickle our noses

And we’ll sneeze out faerie glitter

It’s harder for us

Just us two

The kindergarten paste that holds our bones together

Is not as strong as Elmer’s glue

If it were simple, something easy

We would not have grown so tough, so callused on our hearts

They would have been soft, squishy, blue-veined things

Not at all so hard to suffocate

I look at you, half of a mother’s genes

And worry if you’d feel more comfortable in someone else’s blue jeans

I could sit on this corner alone

But could never feel right if it was you

So while you are parked, sitting Indian-style at the corner of miserable

Or maybe it’s depressed? My eyes are tired from crying for you, and the street sign’s just a little blurry tonight —

I’ll sit the same way talking to you, listening to your dreams as they shoot off into the sky

Like disco-bright fireworks

And maybe we could be the ones to start setting them off

So the colors are a brightness we can control

Instead of waiting for someone else to light up our skies

We could be something better

We could be those stars hanging like charm bracelets in the night.

 

*****

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Alise Versella

Alise Versella

Alise Versella is a twice Pushcart-nominated contributing writer for Rebelle Society whose work has also been published in Apricity Magazine, Crack the Spine, DASH Literary Journal, El Portal, Elephant Journal, Enclave, Entropy, Evening Street Review, Grub Street, Midwest Quarterly, The Opiate, Penumbra Literary and Art Journal, Press Pause Press, The Rail, Soundings East, Ultraviolet Tribe, What Rough Beast, Steam Ticket, Visitant, and Wrath-Bearing Tree, among others. She has recently published a poetry collection When Wolves Become Birds (Golden Dragonfly Press) and Maenad's of the 21st Century (forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press) and was nominated for Sundress Pub’s 2021 Best of the Net award.
Alise Versella
Alise Versella

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