everything so far

By Aimée Keeble

I miss America in 1992 
and plastic clothes and every accessory smiled 
and I was afraid of the music videos 
that showed the world ruled by snarling men with mermaid hair 
I live in a time hiccup
I’m Abraham’s Sarah- womb like a treasure trove emptied of light and eggs 
but I’ll die looking 22 
All the important men in my life loved heroin more than art 
and I love art more than coked up boys with 
white chests and concave wrists and 
disproportionate blades
All these rushing years clipping my shoulders as they pass on by 
and you make me feel good enough to crack my back teeth
I miss being shown how woman I am- 
it spurs me to rage and without my rage 
I am an abandoned moon, sun-hunting and knife fingered
I am afraid of my ineptness at using a colander, buttering rice, using sugar just for me
The importance of soul feeding
When I smile at babies I want their eyes to glow
to see my reckoning because they are closer to whatever music fills me 
inbetween my dreaming

What country, shades, is this? 
This is the New World, no room therein for fantasy but the newness of blue & green eyed travellers 
They like to s p r e a d themselves until the color between things is pure 

I am lonely in the dying world holding my half page out 
to coax angel dirty tread/stamp on its blank, guide me to a 
newer crash, some ivory wet tower I can dissolve in
I don’t talk about love anymore because everybody else does
and so what can I give you, except my promise to be early on 
whatever platform your body glides in on,
no matter the weather
I miss a marble being passed instead of language, from the French palm of a girl to mine-
there is a remembering god that sleeps in my ear and wakes sometimes to whisper me
small poems of times when the sky was bathwater and off I warmed into perfect 
Now memory batters me the way I wanted love to
I am only on fire when someone shouts my name,
as if it were the last thing I’d hear 
before I tumbled upwards into a warrior’s ending 
We don’t know where it is best to be, but crawl
with your heart nearest to the ground,
if you give nothing in this life, at least give your
best beat to the world 
Here, we are here and I am unraveling in strings of gold, 
white hot sound 

Aimée has her Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow and is represented by Ayla Zuraw-Friedland at the David Black Agency. Aimée lives in North Carolina with her dog Cowboy and is working on her first novel. She is the grand-niece of Beat writer and poet Alexander Trocchi. Find her on Twitter, Instagram, or her website.

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