|Collage by Jill Arthur|
|The Boat by Juliet Buesing|
i've recently begun collecting
the skeletons of social butterflies,
an entomology of extroversion,
and so far,
findings have been slim.
people are very perplexing,
words are wearying,
and i am sure i missed
or at least one of the steps on my google directions,
this is no era for an introvert,
if such a thing even exists.
|By Tamara Fitzgerald|
She examined me like a burnt out bulb, but held me like a lantern. 'It's not your fault.'
Every new day in this place, they whisper love into my bruises.
My spine has become a staircase -- for words of light to climb like octaves.
Did you know heartbeats still live under my palms?
I found that out when she squeezed my hand so hard I could feel our pulses beat together.
And when his inky letters climb to the tops of buildings to shout only ugly through me-
her whispers carry echoes back on the wind. 'Beauty, beauty, you have always been beauty.'
"I've been trying," he said.
Startled at the fluid voice,
I jerked my eyes up
passed my warm, gritty feet,
following up to the tip
of my shadow.
"Trying what?" I gasped,
not because he was a tree
talking, but trying.
But then I saw...
Roots dragging along behind
as he seemingly crawled
pulled forward toward the cast sea
the vast freedom I had...
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Still guilty, I left him there,
one soft, seperate, step at a time.