Perception Spring 2023

Ballet of greys, symphony of
nothing
Alexandra Milchovich
Mayfly
Claire Aronson
[For Thomas—Tommy]
Americana glimmers in you,
forgotten red, white, and blue daze,
flags smoldering to crisps of nostalgia,
lit up by trust fund teenagers,
their hand-rolled cigarettes wafting violence in silk puffs.
Granulated memories are rolling films,
shaking upon the silver screen,
in my chest, the rock rumbles,
clattering against broken, bloodied ribs,
it’s smothering you,
isn’t it?
A ballet of greys, a symphony of nothing,
its weight squashes my feather lungs,
You pry my eyes open, ripping out my scorching tears and I’m
screaming into the void of your
full eyes and off-kilter nose;
I pray for a You without a woman
so hellbent on her quest for martyrdom.
Wishful sweetness in your wasteland,
a fat pomegranate’s scent wafting for
a wandering zombie with a
fruitless mind, a barren womb, and
a rumbling stomach of ice.
Familiar splotches of heady purple on skin,
chapped lips prodding at used flesh,
eroding that stone under my breast.
A mayfly has made acquaintance with December.
The desk chair is well worn,
by you,
who never could sit still.
A mother, who lays sliced fruit like flower petals
Eats a yellow egg and curses
Pigeons perch on green copper shoulders while
The frigid cat slinks through your door for her Nap
all too familiar
Four white walls stand bare, overbearing
If I could,
I’d tug at your ears until they’re hot red magenta
Pull out your hair until you can see
And cup your cheeks, more freckles than face
And say,
As many times as I have to,
that your day is not done.
Not just yet.
The scuffs on my knees, despair follows:
digging reddening nubs of fingernails into
bars of the cage.
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