I’m laying here in the in-between of suns
beginning to spin thoughts in the moon sunk hours
unraveling, my loose threads tangle in tiny knots
grasping hands in the dark, which hold me
beneath an ink-thick veil of neither silence nor sound
hearing only the echoes of the insides of my selves
in cacophonic whispers that are never able to agree
clamoring for space, they elbow against the edges of my skull
clawing through grey matter, tearing synapses in their tasmanian wake
before emerging orifical in a blood-throbbing burst
blinding white-hot light-spots refract into spectral color
prismatic against the onyx aura of the room, a collective exhale exhumes
their kaleidoscopic wisps collect into reflections of faces I’ve sometimes
seen in the glass gazes of mirrors or glances caught in an
especially bright window in spring as I blow
past on wind-lifted footsteps weightless in the bud-studded
breeze on my wanderer days that glide on black-veined wings
glowing translucent against the sorbet rays of the sky gone
twilight holding steady as I set softly into the horizon suspended between atmospheres,
my heliconius limbs stretch span the star-washed night in infinite constellations
folding in the aurora of dawns break drifting earth-bound in
narcoleptic surrender I lay on the forest floor nestled
in moss beds among the cradling roots of tender elder oaks
that gently wake me, wingless, and map my way home
flesh-burdened body gravity-bound heavy stepping in its humanity
hitting cement the same color as the concrete clouds begging release
coming in soaking sobs poured in mourning of a
selfish suns goodbye, the scorn of a shrouded moon, the snuff of unseen stars
leaving lonely puddles on the pock-marked skin of oil-slick streets
filling the craters and lining garbage-strewn gutters
here, I’ve sometimes seen the same specters stare in distorted glares
a thin film of wavering iridescence caught in the clutch
of tar-stained fingertips that know no limit in their ravenous reach
the ones I see seep through the burnt edges of my eyelids
stuck open in their grip each time I ache
too weary to rest, when I say I was sleeping
when I say I slept.
Lexi Burt (she/her) was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, but spent most of her twenties in Northern California and left her heart among the redwoods, moss, and ferns. She is currently a student at the University of Utah who writes with the intention to cultivate empathy and awareness. Her first pieces were recently published in Prose Nouveau, and her work centers around the relationship between body and earth, mental health, motherhood, and sexuality. She's happiest surrounded by trees, and you'll often find her face to the sky, feet buried in the ground, and stealing a moment to lie in the sun. She likes to take her daughter and two dogs camping, hiking and wandering in her downtime, never without a yoga mat in tow.