Poetry by Sydni Trameri

                 ​half alive - soo zzzz CC



​
CENTER OF CRISIS

A week and a half’s worth
of adrenaline. Every muscle aching.
The resistance. The white flag.
The What more do you want from me?
Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.
You never tell me anything. Use your words.
The walk right through the gates of 
Hell in fluffy lilac slippers. The way
it makes you feel small, the way you
always feel small. The signing away
of the soul. The cavalier nature of it.
The rise and set of a sun you do not
believe in, marking the passage of time,
which you also do not believe in.
The neat row of books and small Styrofoam cups.
The Do what we say, or you’ll never leave.
The screams of the damned. The relentless sirens.
The resistance, again. The white flag, again.
The Thank you for making this so easy.
The way it makes you feel small, the way
everything makes you feel small.
What’s the difference between compliance and kindness?
Where did you learn this obedience? When?
The catch and release your stillness earns you.
One of many endings, most of which
you have yet to meet.





​ON LIVING AS AN APPARITION

This entire Earth is a haunted house. I know I
am not the only ghost, but it is hard to find
the others. Before we go out, we hide our
pallor with a fresh coat of paint and just a hint
of blush. We know how to fake just the right
pace to fit in with the living: the never-ending,
needless hurry. If we really try, we can
remember what it was like to breathe, remind
the chest to rise and fall. But you can’t put
the light back into an eye. They give us away
every time. Once, a man - a stranger, a fellow
phantom - looked me dead in my dimming
eyes and said, “I can tell you’ve seen some
shit.” I looked away. I could not bear the sight
of my own reflection.​

Sydni Trameri is a poet from Decatur, Georgia.

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