aren’t anything more than small creatures caught in death and left
for millions of years until we pull them from their opaque graves.
we display their decayed bodies with gentle hands,
aware that muscle compensates for missing skin and
bone compensates for missing muscle;
but without bone
everything sinks back to dust.
the demon weaves through the city,
its path already chosen by narrow tracks
I stare straight over a stranger’s head, trying to catch a
glimpse of the moon between buildings
the seats all face towards the center
so more people can fit
so you don’t have your back to anyone
so you have to work to look out the windows
you, in our old apartment, backlit by the morning sun
you are so warm that I mistake your skin for sunlight
some days I yearn for mountains
but mostly I yearn for clear, fast-moving water
I suppose I still have both, between the buildings
and faux river, but these things are still different
call it change. call it fear of change
call it geographical suicide but at least
we are here together
me, in our new apartment, stretched across the same bed
I am so upended that I mistake myself for a shipwreck
certainly, if you weren’t holding me hard with both hands
I would sink
we live so close to the lake
on some cold days I can’t tell
where the water ends and the sky begins
I have dreams where I drop things
in the water and watch while I lose them forever
we promised honesty, always
a lie: I hate it here.
a truth: I don’t fear change,
I fear being without you.
Rachel Egly is a bi poet, engineer, and ecologist in love with all things water. Her work has previously appeared in Vagabond City, The Rising Phoenix Review, and Ghost City Review, and is forthcoming in The Fruit Tree. She currently lives in Chicago with her partner and cat, where she catches crayfish, naps as much as possible, and spends most of her money on good food. You can find her @SPF_6 on Twitter or at rachelegly.wordpress.com.