Editor’s Note: Introspective Ramblings is Amherst Wire’s poetry column, dedicated to showcasing student’s creative work.

How Does the Past Begin?

Through the back of the eyes,

a reaching soul-ward. 

Without patience. (I am looking 

at you, not at the garden shed,

gleaming.) In surges during the night. 

In phases, the first a shivering sister. 

The rest forgotten, sinking 

into tracks. Unoccupied. 

(We forget how we first breathed. 

Once I lived inside of skin, 

but so did you. Do you remember?) 

Paper thin. Moon-like. Calf-like; 

it takes time for the old-selves to stand. 

Blue as teeth in the night. 

(I want to break through new skin 

with the flapping of wings, 

I want to be ruined in water.) 

Hollow at first, person-shaped, 

and then something else. 

Sugar-sweet. Mirrored spoon. 

Unopened door. Secret 

tucked beneath the chin. 

(What is the purpose of memory 

if it eats like this?)

Email Riley at [email protected]