by Anna Wythe
sleeping bodies mumble beneath the tree
that overhangs the river. the tree is
filled with crows, folding and now unfolding.
you say your roommate is stuffing himself
with lobster rolls from Maine, a whole icebox.
my throat tears open syllables and spits
a husk. i think nothing. the magnolias
are solicitous towards you. i think
that each white flower is a paper cut
and each petal is a gash of zero,
as you are also. you won’t turn to me,
your face. i wouldn’t ask. i’ve been
studying God and the laws of baseball:
a feast of exegesis. don’t give me
a white stone with a new name. i will choke
on this dry tongue till my hands learn silence.
you’re vivisecting, your fingers uncurl
blood orange peel over the rail. drop it.
when you break the skin, what stutters open?
a mouth, a life disconcerted by you.
the crumpled woman with the cigarette
is destitute, we both know. there are blue
hyacinths tied to the bridge spokes where you
lean and spit orange pips into the Willamette.
About the author:
Anna Wythe is a history student at Cambridge University. All the places she cares about are currently being destroyed by drought, floods or wildfire.