We know, oh.
It all turns back on ourselves, dear me,
I’d like to get rid of this axis,
This eternally rotating rotation.
You turn back
I turn back
And so on, and so on, and on so.
We think that, by seeing, seeing each other,
We might somehow stop, not might, but do stop.
Impossibly raised above ourselves,
But, really, it is only I that knows.
Trees below the ground, clouds above the sky, nose between your thumb.
That putrid smell.
The clock strikes twelve, and down we come,
One foot below the other,
Click clack clackity click.
and now that horrible feeling where I can’t find the sky and the sky can’t find me.
That’s what roofs are for, my mother tells me.
And my father, at the other end of the dining table, with squinty concentration,
An unfocused focus,
Plopping each grape in his mouth like coins into a slot machine.
Bing bing bing
Winner winner winner,
Cashmere floods of falling snow,
A mountain of people crowding,
Crumbling rocks and sharp edges,
Crushing and grinding.
And, me, painfully caught in this avalanche,
Trapped between the cold space and white air,
Desperately clamoring, grasping, for traction,
I hear your whisper between the soft rumble of the train on the tracks,
Spit, you say.
I realize. I do. I finally understand.
To know up from down, down from up, it is the only way.
I must spit.
Gravity decides, not me, not you, not I,
The heaviness returns,
And down I go,
Sinking deep, deeper, deepest.
Me, a bliss-filled snowflake,
But not bright,
And only for a moment,
Until I find my place, myself,
Amy Kislyakov is an undergraduate college student who is interested in inquiring into the nature of language, into its possibilities as well as its limitations, and the spaces between.