Whenever there is a fight, I walk myself to the crossroads of our house,
at the top of the stairs, in front of the mirror, blocking the two halls,
and I wait, staring as the anger fades from my face; my brow unwound, shoulders relaxed, the muscle in my jaw indistinguishable yet again.
The Silence sticks to my skin,
buzzing in my cells like static, like the pulsation of music playing off your bones,
announcing their return; Past, Present, and Future.
Past is the worst of me.
She is pacing to my left like a caged animal with her arms crossed and pixie cut askew. She wears the uniform of a Commander and when she speaks, I see that her canines are soft from grinding her teeth.
Her face is pale with hate. She is a ghost that haunts me.
She shoots her glare at me and she orders with a pointed finger to go back and win.
Her fury falls into the pit of my stomach.
We were too young to be so angry.
Present pulls my attention from Past by knocking on the mirror pensively.
She frets at me, she holds her hands in front of her, as if she is going to apologize for all of us, she knows as well as I do that if she does, it negates all the work we have done.
We have wounds from the Past, pain flutters under the seam from time to time.
She is me, and I am her, but she is better at filtering through the chaos that has settled in my head just yet, salving the good things for me to see.
Her voice is rounded by the mirror as she assures me that I am not a bad person.
The wooden floor creaks under the feet of Future.
A chill winds up my spine, as if her toes are pressing between the narrows of my vertebrae.
Her presence takes up the peripheral of my right eye as shadow.
I hold my breath, I turn my head, but I am restricted, pushing against an invisible heel that pulls me from looking into Future’s obscurity,
the tendons in my neck ache as I push until I am allotted the left face of Future, which is etched in silver, carved from shadow,
what does this new phase mean for the Moon?
A brown eye squints at me, a chuckle rolls from the dark.
I swallow, hoards and hoards of questions buzz in my throat,
lashing at my subconscious to be said.
Future tests me, feeding me answers little by little,
always after I forget what I was worrying about.
Present clears her throat.
The light from the mirror washes over my face as she leans against it, fretting at me.
Future smiles, a half crescent, before evaporating, showing me the closed door she had hidden behind her.
*
Word Not World series is an interactive anthology where I show a picture, and use the words inspired by the picture to make a poem, such as this one. This poem was inspired by the word, “hallway,” requested by my Mom, Beth Sine.
If you would like to participate in next week’s Word not World series, keep an eye out on Instagram @ enis.st.sparrow and here on St. Sinjin, I will post a picture on Sunday.
Love this