Frames
Days sealed with goodnight kiss are unbattered frames
We pass through. Friction
Glances and sweet nothings wedge something between
Soft touches and singed sheets.
—Elsewhere, bolts slip-turn, doors dangle from hinges and
shadows close in slivers
of illuminated pathways
littered in pages—
Pinched bones creak out our room into living room
So heavy hands can sob black ink,
Smooth blots into pure form and
Puppet lines to careful arcs
Stranger’s knock hiccups the air but doesn’t pop
Bubble world in I
Finish words still fresh and
Lip trace them. Vibrations
Ripple on plasma-memory walls we decorate each
Year with new blocks and shapes
Stuck in broken squares.
I don’t fear the silence seeping through
The other room. The door is left
Ajar so fractured space can give light.
—Monique Tranchina
This article appears in October 2016.
