sluice

how could you be so sad mindless with sadness thick bland unflavored unsalted sculpted hard beneath this day old cream of wheat, this half melted candle wax, this pile of wet sand too thick to hold shape, waiting for that spiral tide.

I don’t know why it comes over me; it’s overwhelming but I’m inclined to think all of my emotions are overwhelming. What Lillian said sat deeper than expected. I am not glass I cannot expect everything to slide off.

it wasn’t denial no, I did not wake up to love

it slumbered alongside me, traveling its own course

and lived like blood in my veins traveling from the tips of my toes, my fingers;

but this was the moment it reached my heart, my lungs, to fall with my breath

(every part of me that is alive was filled with you)

We had 19 days of rain and against the cool pavement I could see the sky start its fade into a deep purple spring. watery black eye looking back.

Soph Bonde is President and Publisher at Argot Magazine. She is a professional photographer in Washington DC and awkward about it. She has been described as an 'administrative machine.'

PoetrySoph BondeJune 16, 2017series: held lines, poetry, soph bonde