Photo by JR Korpa
All You Should See Is Blue
Vikki C.
History has never been an easy child to travel with on a rainy night. Dazzling fireflies only halo the valley you’ve already passed. Thrumming water triggers an ancestral pledge where the moon should be. Hungry, I drink the milk of an animal more patient than I, but understand little of this conflict. Why this blue terrain bears no affinity to blood, until my lover flows through it—a river leaving their own skin behind.
Everywhere, the universe is slow cinema–Tarkovsky's camera turned away from the subject. Its lens conveniently polished by our soft faith. It gifts us avoidance, so we may fill it. With stories we’d want for ourselves if our bodies never perished. If we reached the last touch, our skulls ringed with jewels.
It’s hard, because death has its own starless drowning. I try to tender the storm’s eye inside a jasmine bloom–a delicacy my mother devoted her grief to, while some man shifted a wider plot away from the sun. Its clouded aspect loosening the soil beneath our fine roots.
A white sheet descends and we predict most things won’t survive. Yet, snow projects its own light and a deer leaves its prints as evidence of passage. Because my father loved timeless films, even the word “cut” rings the sky awake. What do we miss more than a body’s elsewhere language? I fail at prayer, yet the friction of two palms disturbs the same dust that won’t settle.
I never learnt the exact pressure at which a mind breaks in deep space. Nor how the remains stay suspended above our cold shoulders. Scanning the first dawn below, everything still and dark. Minor fists clenched around a translucent heartbeat, I consider the one good frame–that mostly never dissolves.
Vikki C.
History has never been an easy child to travel with on a rainy night. Dazzling fireflies only halo the valley you’ve already passed. Thrumming water triggers an ancestral pledge where the moon should be. Hungry, I drink the milk of an animal more patient than I, but understand little of this conflict. Why this blue terrain bears no affinity to blood, until my lover flows through it—a river leaving their own skin behind.
Everywhere, the universe is slow cinema–Tarkovsky's camera turned away from the subject. Its lens conveniently polished by our soft faith. It gifts us avoidance, so we may fill it. With stories we’d want for ourselves if our bodies never perished. If we reached the last touch, our skulls ringed with jewels.
It’s hard, because death has its own starless drowning. I try to tender the storm’s eye inside a jasmine bloom–a delicacy my mother devoted her grief to, while some man shifted a wider plot away from the sun. Its clouded aspect loosening the soil beneath our fine roots.
A white sheet descends and we predict most things won’t survive. Yet, snow projects its own light and a deer leaves its prints as evidence of passage. Because my father loved timeless films, even the word “cut” rings the sky awake. What do we miss more than a body’s elsewhere language? I fail at prayer, yet the friction of two palms disturbs the same dust that won’t settle.
I never learnt the exact pressure at which a mind breaks in deep space. Nor how the remains stay suspended above our cold shoulders. Scanning the first dawn below, everything still and dark. Minor fists clenched around a translucent heartbeat, I consider the one good frame–that mostly never dissolves.