By Sarah Bean

I heard there’s a hole in the sky—  
our very own kaleidoscope,
turning shop windows into fire-starters
and trees into tessellations.
Turning the beautiful into breakable,
climate crisis and heartache 
all too familiar.

I’ve still got pictures of you 
(more than I’d like to admit).
Your smile, a punch to the teeth, but I’m
still laughing through my bloody gums,
begging you to tell me lies instead of secrets
because I know too much and somehow too little
and just want to hear you say I love you again.

I’ve almost earned myself a degree in daydreaming,
imagining possibilities and patterns and predicting our outcomes
but it seems that I failed the final. 
Failed to see this blindspot,
failed to factor in your feelings
(or lack thereof)
instead of my own.

So now there’s a hole in the sky,
and I can’t help but wonder if you see it too.
I taped prisms together,
turned them into rose coloured glasses,
tried to see the world through brand new eyes, but 
it turns out red flags can’t look like red flags 
when they look too much like art.

Sarah Bean (she/her) is a library technician and poet from Alberta, Canada. Her work has appeared in Goats Milk Magazine, The Giving Room Magazine, and in zines photocopied at her local library. She thanks you for being gentle. 

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