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the chain, the paper, the sun

Meredith Wilshere

who were we when the gates fell? moments
before spent dancing in the street, the still air
settling in our skin. how we used to awaken to
the alarms barking, bemoan long train waits or
missed connections, wheels beneath screeching to
a hault, tripping footing and uneasing gravity. to think of
the nights drowned in lightning, hot flash of white light, heels leaving the
floor in electricity, a guitar riff, a disco ball, a singular bubble rising to
the top of a drink.

being stretched inside calendar lines, finding
place and purpose for each new day after
dreams swell with the monsters of our own, how
the thing we may need the most, yearn, but not ask for is
what we cannot have. removing what it felt like to be enveloped in
the arms of another, buried in their chest not buried under stress or
buried. when the phone rings, the screams well louder than
they used to. to find comfort in the ignorance, escape in the
historic, hands stained in ink from the day’s
paper stacking at the door.

now, we remark on how the sunlight peaks
through the window, tickling the skin it grazes.
the wind still presses its hands to windows,
swaying softly by itself. somethings that were
always true will be. things that are not, we meet
in dreams. if only for a night, teased by hours
kept awake. the steady beat of the drum, the scratch of the
chain on the gate.

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