Dichroscope
2 Minutes Read Time
It feels good to throw the minnows of my hands
some mosquitoes of action, so the mind can go find.
When you were alive, there were times I wanted
to slip you something to make you sleep.
I’m still ashamed of these thoughts, a cosmos
of fire opal crimped in my pliers. I wanted
to gain half an hour where the water curses would stop
arpeggiating out of your manic and hunger-wracked mouth.
My dear, how death has somewhat contained you.
I press this upon the grindstone, blackened by slow drips
of water from a jimmy-rigged butter tub. I press
until each facet forms, a mirror within. When I was younger,
I wanted more than my mother’s creeklife, wanted
love as a snuff-filled ring, claspable, discreet,
the high both sharp and fleeting. You were
my street flash, trail of candied light
from the diodes in a child’s shoes. A crystal of me
was left in our old bedroom that night I found you
screaming an Animal Collective song—deep inside
a private fever and—oh god—so alive.
And I did not cling to you, I sat and listened,
and my knowing became a knowledge
that I can never really share. I peer into
my creation, the flaring hollow I place in setting,
as the mind continues to rummage through its box
of findings: jump ring, bead cage, eyelet, rivet, link.
Read more from Issue 16.2.
