My shadow has sat heavy in this place
that isn’t mine—

on the swing set
with the creaking, shrieking chains
that bit my fingers, wild
things, as they filled
my mouth with sky,

on the slide
that I had long outgrown,
twisting like a lock of hair
or like a lie, that bright and
static-sprinkled
thing I’d lay upon
as I’d pretend to fall,

on the metal rock wall,
glinting coolly, a dragon
in a plaything’s shape, a
thing I mounted only once
and thought myself free

—and sits there, still,
the only old thing that remains.

by A.J.

what can i do
if i can’t wait for you?

i was a traveler in an antique land.
you were a story that you told me.

like the sun, i used to touch your hair.

in the sandstorm of my
mind, you are a cracked and
crumbling Ozymandias,
ruined tyrant, just standing, just so
very still.

i’ve broken every fingernail on
your roughened, roughening
edges. i made you so beautiful, so
cold.

by A.J.

So strange

That we sit here, seventeen and now
so used to quiet grief,
a ritual
no different from brushing
our teeth or feeding
the cats.

That we have to settle around
the empty places, arms awkwardly around
shadow shards and memories and
unbrushed wilding dust.

That we have to fill ourselves
right next to them.

That we’re emptying all the same.
That it’s all so quiet.

by A.J.

Darling, I almost remember when
the unhooked stars and sliced-up moon
were not enough to light you, when
the sky could fit inside your fist
or underneath your heel.

It hurt, I know, I know, to see
your face in every window and
cracks in every mirror and
bullets in anybody’s eyes.

That someone would save you,
that the universe would save you
a seat—
you waited and waited
to come awake.

Nowhere to look but in,
darling.
Nothing to do but fall.

by A.J.

It’s two a.m. and
you can’t see.

The skewed sheets cling
to your coiled legs, now
springing goosebumps
against the open window

(you just want
to smell the night).

How can anyone sleep,
you think.
How can I go
alone again.

The dark is all
around you, enough
to drown, to swallow, and
you would be long devoured

were it not for that summer scent.

You feel a wide world
outside your window,
soon to be brightened,
soon to be yours,

so much bigger
than your hurt
could ever be.

Nowhere to look but up,
my love.
Nothing to do but stay.

by A.J.

You have imagined falling
in love a thousand times.

It should hurt, shouldn’t it,
like all falls do, a heart-shaped
bruise, breath snatched from lungs,
nothing easy, nothing soft.

But tonight, you think
just this, just
the hand in yours, just
the rain-polished pavement, just
the low sweet laughter,
oh—

maybe this is it,
darling.
This is where you land.

by A.J.

When you were twelve you decided
that you would believe in God.

It happened like this:

sitting on the swingset you
felt you were too old for, you
felt the sunlight, sudden,
on your skin, and

the air smelled of the flowers
that hadn’t yet bloomed, and
the breeze tasted of August,
months away, and

the sky unfolded its warmth
upon your shoulders, and
your feet, brushing March mud,
seemed miles from the ground, and

suddenly you wept your clumsy
twelve-year-old tears,
having caught a corner of a thing
so big and beautiful
you couldn’t bear it.

This world could not belong to you
so you gave it to God
instead.

by A.J.

fingers on a keyboard
vocal chords forgotten
this is supposed to be
human?

a glaring screen
distorted sounds
this is supposed to replace
life?

where is the
Human
that I should be
surrounded with

where is the
Life
that I’m used to

fingers on hard metal
cold
where is the
Warmth
that comes with
Life
that is so
Human

where is it in this world?

by C.H.

I see your
hair, peeking out from under your
hat, it makes me want
to slide my fingers into
its curls
where I know I’ll never
have to let go

hold you close to me
feel you run your fingers through my
hair, relish in this
closeness, this
symbiosis
my heart, is
yours

by C.H.

My mother said I was born angry.
She said I came out hungry, too, two
eyes like pinwheels spinning into nothing, spinning
empty fairground rides, tunnels of dark, tunnels
into the deep inside her, the deep
where I had clung when there was nothing left to fill me.

I came out small, too early, face pinched
like that of an old lady too world-weathered to cry.
I did not cry.

She held me in a blanket, swaddled, swallowed
whole. And we were hungry, she and I, and
the world was hungry too and she knew, she
knew the small and skinny precious thing I was
to her, yellow like gold, sharp like rain.

by A.J.