Memory is like a palpitating shadow,
a ghost pang, oiled
to beat and shriek
against the wind.
My tongue doesn't realize
the flight of ghosts.
(written by myself from my internship. I'm kinda proud of it)
---
We recorded our voices as mp3s in order to tease each other, to prove how far we were willing to reveal our secrets. I kept mine on a burned disc, repeating my order for you not to listen until I left. Separately, we listened to the coos of impressions being made. I fell for your laughter, your voice rising and falling in earnest desiring. You fell for my blending with the sound, and for goodness knows what else.
We drove along the coast, me falling asleep while clasping your hand. Inland, familiar songs began to play, us mouthing the words. And then you began to sing. My voice snuck underneath yours, crescendo-ing in familiarity. Something. Samson. These Days.
And it's just the beginning. My goodness, I love you.
[Samson- Regina Spektor]
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Nice poem...only I dont get the connection between the tongue and the shadow.
ReplyDeleteCarly!! I remember Ashley saying you had a blog, so I did some searching, and I have to say I LOVE LOVE LOVE this poem! Particularly the phrase, "a ghost pang, oiled."
ReplyDeleteIt was so nice talking with you, and absorbing all your beautiful eccentricities <3 I cannot wait for you to come back from school so the three of us can go gallivanting through some open spaces and take photographs.
p.s. I'm sure you're more familiar with the blogs than I am, so you may have seen this before, but it reminded me of the photo on your computer of the carousel and the strip of paper taped over it..
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0HJ191Gsfqw/S-oVTnfvx4I/AAAAAAAAJJs/8ib5hXIHfMA/s1600/PSthanks.jpg