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.

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