Sorry, William
I’m the only one awake. The boy mutters in a soft, high-pitched mumble-moan. Trees scrape the roof, trying to break in. How many people whiz by on the freeway at 4am on a Sunday? A motorboat starts up, motor boating down the canal into the bay. My stomach growls. We live within each other unisolated in this tiny community, this tract of social fabric, but even in sleep or sickness or glare of moon, it isn’t taken for granted. The hum of a jet overhead and the bass vibes of the house’s heater drone the same note. We are all the red wheelbarrow.
to be seen to be considered to exist
when every deep breath is a suppression — when lips pressed together is an invocation to the goddess of indifference — a wordless plea for her embrace — and oblivion — drinking only makes the pains and irritations a little distant — which is to say tolerable — but then the headache
a longitudinal study of 178 poets revealed tectonic plate shifting is a myth — a recent survey of MFA candidates shows that creativity is most effectively measured in fluid ounces
this town cannot make up its mind if it’s shuddering out its last slow constrained breath — or if that mind has been overcome by ghosts — who doesn’t play among the white stones of a graveyard in childhood — grainy as sand and edges worn by weather the angels and obelisks guard the sprawling dead — as fireflies play peekaboo through blue shadows
64% of attendees at poetry readings report a lack of sobriety — two in five American writers agree that breathing is unnecessary
the movies are all wrong — my life isn’t an adventure or a lovestory or even a memorable tearjerker — although it has its moments — these people I live among exist behind a window I cannot penetrate — artfully wild and each exactly like the rest —I’m waving at them trying — trying — to catch an eye
Cruise Ship Dancer
The first thing I do is turn off my alarm and look out the porthole. That tells me all I need to know for success. If it’s cloudy or raining, I put on my Tarantella costume. I will dance the Tarantella of course, but also the tango because it’s moody like the sky. If it’s sunny sometimes I’ll put on my milkmaid costume, but those clogs hurt my feet. Mostly I opt for a green chiffon number and do modern dance. Remember Juliet Prowse on the Muppet Show? I channel that. I pretend I’m a willow tree, my limbs draping gracefully to the earth. I close my eyes and whirl with the wind. I am a tree in the ocean, my beautiful chartreuse leaves fluttering as everyone watches in awe. My meals on the ship are included. I mostly eat lobster and mango. I go for the pricey stuff I can’t afford on land. The sailor’s life is for me.
Surveillance
A woman with pointy bangs was being followed by someone driving a little white Fiat. Everywhere she went, grocery store, gym, office, the little white Fiat was always nearby. The woman with pointy bangs decided to disguise herself by donning big glasses and a fake nose. She took a different route to the gym that day but the Fiat still followed her. She switched the nose and glasses for a pork pie hat and a fake mustache. She sat on a bench outside twirling the long curly ends of the mustache and glared at the white Fiat. Finally, she threw down the hat, marched over to the driver’s door and knocked on the window. As the window rolled down, she saw a woman with pointy bangs. They stared at each other, mirror images except for the mustache. The woman in the car reached out and removed the mustache from her twin. Then she got out of the car and the two embraced as if long-lost family. As they held each other, their bodies merged until only one woman with pointy bangs was left. She got into the Fiat and drove away.
Siân Killingsworth is the author of Hiraeth (Longship Press, 2024). She has been published in Columbia Poetry Review, Roi Fainéant Press, Stonecoast Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry (Poets Resist), and elsewhere, including When There Are Nine, a Ruth Bader Ginsburg tribute anthology. Siân is the Social Media Manager for the Rise Up Review. She holds an MFA from The New School.
