When the riverbed shifts its silt

It blurs as dyes colliding 

Until the mallard flock flurries 

And the water swirls muddy

When the riverbed reclaims its sediment 

We collapse in stifled combining

Taint me until I’m something different

Blend me into something pretty

Photo by Andriyko Podilnyk on Unsplash

This is a rework of something I wrote for someone when I was 18 that I found in my outgoing email. It’s pretty pertinent to circumstances right now which is strange, but things always seem to work out that way. 

Entropy (Heat Death)

Only Entropy Comes Easy

Anton Chekhov

In the day

I create a breeze on the porch swing 

Summer breathes shallow on the nape of my neck

The hot hands clasp my chest 

Another daybright fragment coasts on the grass 

Like a mallard, sparks splutter when I slam down the mallet

Like I’m forging it

And when the sickly orange rots, melts and flushes the clouds

Widowed heat radiates long after the sun is snuffed out 

And swallowed, as the garlic-shaped buds plume up their pollen 

My legs prick red by groping tongues of mosquitos

That come in fat clouds and swat like rain to the window 

Supping up the blood

Spit in something that numbs 

Attracted like the flushed-pink stomach of a lying dog in August

In the night

Somewhere, a moth storms, desperate under lamplight

Somewhere else— darkness seeks out the darkness

I begin to drink

Tongue the drips rolling off my fingers

But not with soft brush

Careful blend of the watercolour,

Rather, Instantly pulse 

Grasp like a sponge 

Rinse and throw down the cup

The bowl of my hands 

Outstretched for my ration of wine and not wafer 

The bottle of amber ran almost empty

Tucked beside my bed 

Its short-lived sympathy

A brief mattress boat that rolls

On nodding heads of the drink

The sky folds the reds in

And gold, sticky ring 

At the bottom of the glass

The half torn poster rattling 

Against the blades of the fan 

Tomorrow, the sun will birth stairwells through the thick branches

Scold shadows on my eyes, the twisting dancers

Illuminate the mosquito clouds 

Scatter them as dust blown when I pass

When I’m gone, rearrange and

Create a new shape 

I open my eyes 

Skin thorned to gooseflesh

Head light and sloshing 

Boat in the land, sunken 

I thought, maybe when I was young

On my floor, on a sheep rug,

With a pen and bound diary 

“Dear twenty-four year old me”

Would she be disappointed,

Would her eyes widen at the sight of me?

I roll over to nobody 

Outside— a distant, scorching firefly 

of a cigarette

And the shallow breath of Summer on the nape of my neck

Photo by Zane Lee on Unsplash