Nothing devours the hours
like me. Nothing takes a sledgehammer
to the asphalt of the day
stretched out hot
and tarry and smelling
of sunset. In the narrowing
light the cedars murmur
songs circular and meant
for not-ears not mine. My gut
aches with fullness. I avert
my eyes. I swim for the far
shore. A creature
a million years past aquatic.
Nothing sends the river-drops
spinning like my stupid
human hands. No one
ever taught me how to float
but I think I could learn,
with time I do not have.
In the creep of dusk I spit
smoke into the dead grass
and the whole damn thing
goes up like a fever, flames
holding open the heavy
door of the dark. I sprint
through the frame. I run
down the street. Nothing
runs after me.
–
Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey is a California transplant attending college in Portland, Oregon. Their work has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and appears in journals such as Gone Lawn and No Contact Mag. They are a mediocre guitarist, an awe-inspiring procrastinator, and an awful swimmer.
© 2024, Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey
Halfway Down the Stairs 