Quarantine, Day ?, 2020

By Chloe Casdagli

A poem from the Summer 2021 issue.

by Chloe Casdagli| Poetry | Summer 2021

Untitled I by Aislinn Cannistraro

A cracked white wall catches shafts of blurry sunlight, shadows dark as prison bars. A window smudged with fingerprints ripples with rain and streetlights, twisted gnarly trees.

Cars drum by full of chanting laughter and quiet hallucinations. The fire sunset grips you in its thawing yellow claws, pulling you from your world of bleach and aching dust.

A ceiling peppered with stick-on plastic stars, crude and manufactured compared to the real ones, arrange themselves into made-up constellations and pull your marionette-like strings until you’re nailed to your shallow bed. With thoughts alone, they draw truths on your skin, too terrible to say out loud. Remember when that car was your car, those laughs more than a pocket watch of time? When shadows weren’t prison bars and windows needn’t stay shut?

When you held the trees, rain, and burning day in your palm, too close to really touch? It wasn’t a dream, no, but reality is thinner than paper.
Soon, you’ll be left with nothing but the plastic stars, a shallow bed, and a cracked wall teasing you with sunlight.

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