The churning must be worth something, worth troubling the dust. Often, I wonder if we aren’t all just dreaming together of intimacy. Like the false sense of desolation I might feel after rejection from something I was never into. Joy never made me question my motivations. If I were to be blind with nerves, I’d hope to flinch alongside, to gather what could be gathered. I rode out the storm with all my waves of hair, unbuttoned and perused. What sounds I make in my head can’t be recreated on paper. Or so I believe. The visions I have, only I can see. Nor can I retain them; I am always forgetting and acquiring. No one else can possess: my memory of light hitting the river’s surface, or the sound of the blinds rattling against the glass on summer nights. I imagined intruders entering through the third-floor window. But I misspeak. I want to erode until I am only a core, an unfathomable beginning. I say to myself: Pretend this never existed. Which may not be far from truth. What some might call indictment; enticement for all else. Whatever the delusion, it helped me get to today.
When Evening Hours Quicken
into grainy disquietude, I remember even as the orb tips into a pinpoint, douses its coals, depletes into a slice, how hungry I was for everything in this world. I wanted not to be wrong so badly I did every mirthless thing. Why follow through on lofty, unwanted determinations? Now, I wait for fascination to spread, like the fruiting bodies from a vast underground mushroom. Tell me why as I drift to sleep I am not infatuated with a discordant, siren hum. Even in surrender, I cannot seem to shake off possession. I write as if to curate a dream. Come morning, I am uncertain if I have fully awakened.
Maya McOmie is an emerging multicultural poet with a background in editing and creative writing. She currently works at a bookstore and has called Portland, OR home for the last ten years after moving there from Japan.