1/6/2018 Poetry by Lance Milhamand he will chase In the dark you watch god pull a dagger from his pocket and slice a hole in the clouds directly above you. its blood staining your clothes, your bodies trembling under wet heads, you kiss the boy like vanilla ice cream, and he melts just the same and you splash in that puddle, exchange toothy grins and reddening cheeks like how they do in the movies, and you lead him with a beckoning finger to run and play chase through the yard because he can’t know he’s already caught you, so you play chase through the woods because he can’t know he’s already caught you, so you play chase through the street because he can’t know he’s about to have to catch you, so you play chase through the windshield of a Chevy Silverado. and then you’re dragged by the root of that three-strand braid he said was “so you,” higher and higher, through all his shrieking, through all that raining higher and higher, until you can no longer see him trying to put you back together, until you count the stars and open your lungs expecting them to choke and dissolve but they don’t because that part is already over, higher and higher, until you get to where you say “oh, my god,” and he says “yes, my child?” as you gaze around the most glorious prison you’ve ever known. with no visitation; they probably suspect no one will crave visitation in paradise. but you do as does he, and between the red shards of thunder he can still hear your laughter drooling down the window, down its windows, and he whispers your name under shallow, shaky breaths as his eyes mimic the darkest clouds from that red night with you and the city of gold is dreary. you are his skylight, and you can’t help but watch with your ear pressed to the glass floor, and you smell the cottonsky like wildflowers. you hear that whisper and it cuts through your heart like Plath and it sounds so soft and so far away, so fucking far away you aren’t sure you can actually hear it at all, and it deafens you, almost as much as the faint clatter of the knives he eats with every single day and ponders every single day, amongst all the rain and amongst all his rain because you know in his great blues it’s fucking hurricane season all the time, and then your own silver tears start to bud off your cheeks, because it’s still too close, because it’ll always be too close, and in every rainstorm it drunkenly trudges closer, he drunkenly trudges closer, and you cry and love and scream and beg that the clouds “please just stop!” and “please just fucking stop!” and postpone the most welcome death you’ve ever known watch the crows; i lost her in the dark! she looks just like her mother her black thumbnails chew the lemony edges of the Polaroid it’s got no pushpin holes or tape residue she knows she looks just like her mother those ivory cheeks sizzle and redden god, she’s strong but her hair isn’t blonde anymore, hasn’t been for months been red and blue and black, like now, and maybe that’s so she won’t see it, see mother in that mirror see it, see her in every little piece, in every shallow line on that round face every crooked tooth behind those plump lips every tiny freckle, like graham cracker dust every mile she’ll ever drive to that headstone, may they keep the grass green forever every red flannel she’s ever buttoned every sunrise, and the new memories stitched, whether she wants to make them or not every white thread in her smokey blue eyes every chubby finger she stuffs in her pockets every sunset, and the old memories, up her throat from a boiling stomach, and she must swallow every black boot she’s ever laced every masterpiece she’ll ever paint every fraying cuticle by those nails she cuts so short just like her and paints black just like her god, she likes them black because she liked them black because they are the same. so she’ll sacrifice that gold mane make it red and blue and black mirror’ll never be a Polaroid again never cry in the damn sink again make it all black, darling! for dry eyes, for reflections only in mirrors doors dad don’t you push please do not push the door is shut the door is the door is shut the door the door the door is shut and any longer or you’ll find my light off the light is off will stay off i will pocket my wallet, phone, my wallet, my wallet my phone, my watch my keys and the door is shut the door the door is shut until my door is shut dad don’t pockets are turned out my pockets my pockets are the phone is my phone my phone my phone is charging my phone will not ring not from me i will be busy my woman will still turn em out like a factory and they’ll be beautiful and happy just like me and never call you just like me never call you on your phone is charging the phone is charging and she’ll turn em she will turn em out my woman works hard my woman works my god we will move far away and i will shut the door the door the door is shut the door is ![]() Bio: Lance Milham is a fiction writer and poet from Melbourne, Florida. He is a recent graduate from the University of Central Florida in Creative Writing.
Bret Marston
1/6/2018 02:03:15 pm
This is truly great ..nice to have read it. Stunning Comments are closed.
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