by Kristen Roach
whereis my heartwhat will my hands dowhile it is away?
lie downcover myself with the bedbe still like yourbodyunder
mangled Towerspinnedwaiting to befound
memory’sbloompressedby heavinessboundin a terrible book
immobilizedI wantmy hope to dieslowlyif it must
notlike the jumpersnotlike the tumbling loss of free willinto gravity
not the blackplummetingthat must pray quicklyforgrace
notlimbs that catch the lightnot the balloons
of their bodiesburstingonto the unforgivingground
I am withyouwasting awaybeneaththe beams
a bruise flowering acrossyour cheekpuncturedlungleaking
eardrumsrupturedin absolute silenceshouting myselfhoarse
staining the blankairburiedeach time I thinkof it
not knowing dayfrom nightor whois nearor how deepwe are
in the dark of thissmolderingscrapheap
what remainsof my heartwhat remains for my handsto do
but clawand hammerand pound itbacktoward living.
Kristen Roach is an eternal student of arts and letters currently starving for artists in a small town in her home state of Connecticut. Her poetry has recently been published in The Pomegranate London, Club Plum, Stay, and The Louisville Review. She spends her time renovating her 1750-built house and unsubscribing from mass emails. She has a thing for thistles, rabbits, and Andrew Wyeth.