Liz Bajjalieh
Guitar strings hum from the speakers on the ceiling
My body, it feels like
That fish I had as a kid
The one with the translucent skin
I could watch his bones, his stomach, his blood vessels pump
Maybe, if I wanted,
I could let my spirit fly out of my skin
Leaving my sleepy body to rest for a while
In this dreary mid-day coffee shop
I’d fly my way over to the lake
No one would even notice
I’d lay at the bottom of the water
Soft sand beneath my back
Watching the silent, ever-shifting grey/blue patterns above
Only the sound of my slow, sleeping breaths
Until, I awake.
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A brown couch, A yellow lamp, A pale haze
It’s not quite happy and it’s not quite sad
It’s more a moment where the extra pair of arms that wrap around my face
Instead push up my shoulders so I can sit up straight
And stop staring at the ceiling
They lift my chin, spinning out their palms to let me rest my head on their soft skin
No grabbing my flesh to tear
A calm, between the arms that I have built up
A calm within the arms that support me
I rest easy in this fabrication
And make peace with the fact I am not here, or there
Just somewhere, maybe, lifted between the hands of God
I close my eyes, plant my own two hands down, and look back up
No longer a ceiling, but a sky,
A wet, gravel road beneath me,
Cars humming along in the distance, but none drawing near
Grass, covered with dew,
And then, silence.