We are in a fragment

We are in a fragment
 

and this might
be boring.
Might be so much sadness in one place that the emptiness
tightens the chest knocking against ribs
until they're tough.
Might be that we are small and miracles
come in phases, bright flashes so fast that we miss it altogether.
Might be God. Our
punishment and cure,
Are you there are you there?

Might be hard to think of after.
A semi-circle of waking, sleeping, moving
soft and fuzzy in a dream. Each day
a familiar plateau.
Might be the most difficult fragment of a parents life
essential workers life
a mother father brother sister
person's life.

Might be pregnant with anger.
Schools award degrees this year but not hope.
Sweet imagined echoes of shoes shuffling across stages
that now look like fenced backyards and kitchen floors,
safe,
but virtual applause can’t get caught in your throat.
Might be, wash your hands!
Don’t touch your face! Decide a way to welcome without a shake.
Bump or nod just don’t reach out to break
the skin's surface
with your residue like ink and needles. It glides
on smooth, a happy transfer
that feels permanent.

But this Might
be calm.
Might be a chance for our Home to exhale, deep
and ripe with spring, our oil pruned fingertips not poking and prodding its essence
for once.
Might be a surrender. Sing from your balcony to mine
while the evening light strikes the tired city’s match.
And sing loud
so God can hear you too
and think Maybe, maybe.

Might be more wonder.
Our freedom to wade in and out
of all the places we stay, swapping breath with friends and strangers.
Swallow a big gulp and think how, unlike the tide, we get to choose
when we return. An exceptional normalcy.
Might be a salvation from our lips, a slow drip
confessing, ‘I’ve missed you.’
Might be each day on that plateau, caught in that inviting lull,
where eyes droop lazy with sleep in the early hours. But, its homely there
and has remarkable views
where we can see just how small
this world is.

Might be Might maybe,
all temporary.
A few stern rubs and the tattoo will come off in flakes, leaving
the skin red with memory.



Barclay Ann Blankenship

Barclay Ann Blankenship is a recent graduate of Appalachian State University with a B.A. in English with a concentration in Literary Studies. Her work has been published on various online platforms, however, this is her first publication in a creative journal. Currently, she lives in Willow Springs, North Carolina. When she is not writing, she can be found reading, daydreaming of future travels, or playing guitar and singing in her bedroom in preparation for an open mic.