Terrace Song

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.

About the Author:

Danae Younge is a freshman pursuing a BA in Creative Writing at Occidental College. Her work has appeared in over twenty publications internationally, including Salamander Magazine, Palette Point, Nonconformist Magazine, and The Curator. She was a national winner selected by the Live Poets Society of New Jersey in 2020 and placed in the international It’s All Write competition.

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