Change

Change

I remember the tent

so small with a bent side

watching your arms try to piece it back together

It’s what you do

You’re a builder

I’m a watcher

 

I sat at that picnic table glancing up

at you every few moments

trying to capture you on paper at the time

Dreaming I could read it back

to see your face again

 

But I can’t

Every new poem your face changes

Your soul seems different than before

Words stay the same but you don’t

Changing with the seasons

your hair grows

and you change

About the Author

Bri Wilson

Guest contributor

Ghosts

Ghosts

A hotel room is a lonely place

when checking in for one.

Two unmistakable human imprints

remain on this mattress from years of use,

forcing my own body to awkwardly

find rest atop the mountainous middle

Lying in those valleys is too personal;

my shape coinciding with that of a stranger

who listened tenderly to the heavy breathing

and soft snores of a lover sound asleep beside them.

Feet intermingled and fingers laced together

under this same blanket that right now

crushes me and keeps me from sleep,

like your heavy arms around my body

when all I want is the corner of the bed to myself.

I thought I could find some peace and quiet from you

in this goddamn hotel room,

but as I lie amongst these ghosts

I realize that this space could not be further

from empty.

About the Author

Lauren Neely

Guest contributor