COLONY OF TOUCH
every night something ticks across the attic
and waits for me to wake up.
i dream about being someone you lift into the air
nose pressed among your hair, arms encircled,
and all the while something moves through the woods
with teeth intact.
every night, a bid for sleep,
firebird burning in the closet,
waiting to be someone else’s dream,
again we are in the same room
and you’re giving her a kiss after touching me,
just like the waking days of slick July.
it’s been a year and the mountains have not been moved,
clouds stagnant in the waiting.
every day it rains like the world is warring
for daffodils, and i wonder if this is what Rome was like,
feeling so fiercely that collapse is just a part of it.
morning comes hot over august
and i dream with my eyes open
about being a crane on the edge of the Shenandoah,
fishing for stars, bending for avoidance.
i try not to think about how it has always been like this,
the build, then fall; if i were the kind of ghost
that knew how to haunt, i’d lay in the river
beyond your room, under the trees,
and i could sleep, even if just to pretend
the rest of it will be over soon.
Mallory Pearson is a 21-year-old painter, jeweller, and poet currently living in Brooklyn, NY. She has a great interest in spirituality, sexuality, and femininity, and spends most of her time quickly getting bored of new hobbies.