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

The Hands Are Falling Back to Themselves

A hope for silver.

Voices ringing

against a frightening sweetness;

the horror of sugar 

and the wooden chair.

Snow on the floor 

a reminder that bodies 

are not projections.

How did I dream this,

reaching listlessly

through a milky sheet.

Smothered.

I am made of sheets.

I watch people above me spin,

the blue of myself 

reflected 

in their fluorescence.

They are falling backwards.

There is weather here,

and it is too much.

I made this house,

imagined counterfeit ceilings 

for everyone to sing from.

There in the corner

is the canary

freed of metal.

Do I love what I cannot reach?

I forget the shape of my hand

if it is not in front of me.

Email Riley at [email protected]