Elo Vazquez CC
In the Middle of the Water
If I release my clenched teeth
will her image fade?
I cannot stop tightening the grip
on my jaw. Without tension
acid builds up in my chest
and I stop thinking
about her shy eyes, her entirety.
I see Saint Elmo's Fire sprout
from her fingertips
as her freckles delineate
depths of time, “welcome
to Einstein’s universe,”
and I smiled
which is why I let my muscles go
to experience that moment
once again, in her absence
so that I know she exists
still, somewhere, on the other side
of the hidden river to the west.
of the water
speaks to me when she is silent
and I am filled with fire.
Our enmeshed smoke
evidence of our love.
She wonders what I think
when I look at her
and the answer is nothing.
I do not think.
I know. And what I know
with her can give birth to a world
filled with water. A world where we can see
our oceans meet in the middle.
When the sun in its incalculable power
reached between my window’s blinds
while we spent the joyous morning
staring at each other in bed
the light brushed her hair
with a rare gentleness.
I saw her for the first time
as an infinite strand, a filament
refracting fire’s many colors.
“Janie,” I said, “you’re a secret redhead.”
Her playful scowl made me smile
and when she left, the pieces of her hair
that remained kept me company.
Proof that even the smallest dividends
of her body could satisfy me.
And in the near future when the Atlantic Ocean
consumes the east coast and we are eaten by the sea
and her little locks of hair are washed away
and the no longer gentle sun burns the world
even then, we won’t be erased.
The mystery of our perseverance
revealed only in strength’s iridescence.
Sean Lynch is a Philly poet who serves alcohol to people in order to afford rent. His fourth chapbook, On Violence, was published by Radical Paper Press in 2019. He's the Managing Editor for Thirty West Publishing and hosts the Moonstone Poetry series at Fergie's Pub.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.