how clandestine can a day be?
in the morning my hands hold an ocean. a ghost
of a note hanging on a clothesline the air plays
each night. i put it there but i don’t remember. i feel fine at dawn &
a needle weaves its yarn around slick fingers like a travelling sun.
my hands are faster than my feet so they dig a well. i think
in another life i’d have been a slug. pulling against myself always
leaving discard gossamer. let’s hang a lot of leaves on a chandelier
& let dessicated opal dew? i’m talking about mirrors of course &
they are unavoidable. shiny shit that we leave behind. crumpled paper on the ground.
i pick it up & pin the edges. i copy it out & it’s always clear.
i spend the day sewing bed linen for my body
& arrive here every night. an opaque moon in the glass next to me.
i’ll let myself dry out tomorrow & twine into the sky, that vast
reflection of oceans.
Ellie Sharp is a college student in Portland, Oregon studying comparative literature. They’ve been published by Blue Marble Review, Bitch Media, Deep Overstock, and all the sins. Ellie is also the editor in chief of their college’s literary magazine, Reed College Creative Review. Their writing loves the shoreline, and returns to it endlessly.