1. I never much cared for hosting parties.
Always, it seemed, in the morning there’d be broken glass.
2. I’d crack abstractions into the glass until I could recognize myself, a hundred eyes searching back at me for what, they did not know.
3. I offered a bandage to a broken mankind.
I forgot the antiseptics, said I’d be back within the hour.
4. Once a man took me to the river.
We could only stare at it through all the barbed wires and their proclamations: turn around, there’s enough of a mess for you to swim in there.
I thought myself Bathsheba, but I couldn’t even dip my feet.
5. I thought myself an enlightened convict but they wouldn’t give back the key. “We said it would only be on my conditions,” but he’s gone and he can’t hear, and he didn’t say he’s coming back.
6. Blissfully illiterate, he never read my notes.
He’d fold them into origami, flowing into another world on the breathe of every kiss.
7. In the corner I recalled my grandmother’s warning like a prayer.
Do not heed the sun. The moonlit reveries & their daytime retrieval is the only way to stay unburned.
8. The reminiscent complex,
the sugar-titted histories overflowed from my nursing bottle every time I tried to heat it up.
9. The mattress is grey.
Not grey in indistinguishable soot, but the led of pencil etchings we could dream then erase. I like to lie here with you at my side.
Bio: Stephanie Kaylor is an Albany-based daydreamer currently working enrolled in two graduate programs: an MA in Media Philosophy at European Graduate School, and an MA in Women’s Studies at the University at Albany. She is a staunch advocate of ecriture feminine, but won’t shy from admitting to being seduced by the female beats. Stephanie is also currently working with Reginald Lewis, an incarcerated writer whose information can be found at facebook.com/reginaldsinclairlewis.