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]