By Anna Mitchell ’22
I am stretched out horizontal
on my bed
my heavy body pressing
into the forgiving heap
of blankets
like decaying leaves
of October (or November)
and the top layer — the one that knows my skin —
presses me back
this time, for answers.
How many fingers
did I swallow at birth?
How many eyes,
when looking upon me,
have clenched shut
against time wasted?
How many hopes & whims & lusts
haunt my crisscrossed veins?
But I have no answers
to provide
only bound books to circle
a few articles to quote
ancient tales to recount.
But my blanket doesn’t care
for other people’s thoughts.
My blanket beams azure
& emerald & sage
in the morning sunlight (it is still early,
and they’ll be sleeping, for a while longer)
that laps at the room in ribbons
through half-drawn blinds.
Why didn’t they teach me
to see scarred cheeks
and sweat-heavy brows
when I see (grin & dismiss)
the last citrus fruits
that grow?
To detect the scripture
in the trunk of the eucalyptus tree
(reading: Return to sender)
when I borrow
its fallen leaves?
Why didn’t they teach me
to paint broken hands
when they taught me
how to paint?
I remain, nestled
in the soft palm
looking up, noticing
how rough and calloused
the cream-colored ceiling is
like dead skin caked on heels
or my parched winter elbow
that knocks you awake in the morning
You should put some lotion on that
you say, tugging your cocoon
around your lulling frame,
not even suspecting
that the soft swishing sound it makes
might be the voices
of its ghosts.
