By Danae Younge
𝄆 Squeak, click, crunch 𝄇
The distant mountains’ glow,
shingles & jutting molds pearled
like a poisonous whisper crystallizing
slowly into calling, dissolving.
Everything still, moves, & nothing
shows us everything, so we stand.
You pocket kisses
in the groove of my neck.
We hear stories in the news,
car accidents, bullets
carving through politics.
I lift my ear but still can’t tell
if the white neon hums
like my father’s heart monitor.
But do you hear the rhythmic dirge—
the executioner’s shoes marching
up the naked spine of night,
feet callous on the cold stone walkway?
I think we’ve made it too easy—
left a trail of seeds that soles peck at
like beaks & those were tangible,
unlike these swaths of light
threatening to shape-shift.
We could have folded ovals
into soil—crawled & leaped
between sunflower bulbs for lunar shade.
My darling, I know we fear dying,
but look falsely to the moon.
𝄆 Squeak, click, crunch 𝄇
𝄆 Squeak, click, crunch 𝄇
Squeak, click, crunch.
