For Kali

Seth Garcia 



There's this dream you can't seem to explain me
                                                              as after you asked how long the plateau

                    had been the rind of an orange-pucker smile,
                                                                                     your teeth waterfalling out from your

                mouth, not as a plethora's self-consciousness but more the Perseids,

                                        all thirty-two burning

                                                   themselves off in the atmosphere.

But there is no dream, it's mundane as palmar grease,

                                                                                          dull as the hands of love.

                                    For who to find it first? Broken
                                                                          roll down the mountain by the boulder's edge.

              We're trying to fit the furnace inside our chest,
                                                   swallow the blood as it comes ashen

                                                                                       out from the apples, refit our body
                                    to the bas-relief battered in its shipping crate, a marble antique so-long swapped

for the counterfeit the roles have reversed.
                                                   We turn to cough,

                                                                                       but for the mirror shards' song behind us.

              The asphalt's cool to the touch, the smoke-blackened

                                      battery of our shared lung. The obit won't over,
                                                                                       there's shrapnel pooling

                                    on the pillow, sugar sealing shut our waking mind.

              Why not shape grief one giant blue-shaded eyelid

                                                                                   on the moon's grey pools? White-tide

                                                                          moments of high warp in brightly quiet rooms,

                                                                                                                    the Xanax bottle left empty 

              on the counter, the body to be
                                      found in the neighboring canyons

                                                                                                                    thirty-one hours later and in what shape? 





Seth Garcia is a writer previously based out of Boston with a BA from Emmanuel College, where he founded The Saintly Review.

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