- Oct 25, 2024
Updated: Nov 12, 2024
A Moment's Notice
6:14am, in the aftermath of the nor'easter —
a solitary wander before the city rustles,
a side effect of nowhere to-be and no-one to call on,
snow's dampening of sound its own music to me
I escape the wind chill under a bus station platform and
icicles, perilous above, snowstorm's medieval swords,
I think about it splitting my head open on this sidewalk,
the anatomy of it, the skull fragments,
scattered brain matter, a beautiful crimson
stains this pristine white blanket but also
the tarnished gray snow that has soaked in
car exhaust, dirt, gravel, boots' grime,
and humanity's other wretched sins,
a thankless sponge, my open head atop it
long fascinated by any life's last moments,
a final firing of neurons, I would like to think that
this isn't weakness, or worse, sadness,
I want to believe that a beautiful, idealized version
of my life would reveal itself to me, a movie projected
on the white clouds I stare up into, because
I often wondered what the years would look like to me
if it was lensed beautifully, if we applied a filter to it,
if the director knew when to call cut,
if people knew exactly what to say and when,
if the heavy pauses took on narrative weight,
if I could look around me and only see pink sunsets
I hope my eyes know to close when I die,
I imagine this death would be as silent as the air
when the snow was falling, I would simply love to be
found somewhere, peaceful, I would love to be found
in such a state that people are moved,
more than they are fearful of my mangled face,
maybe by an elderly woman trying to catch a bus, or
a young daydreaming man who stumbles on my limbs, oh yes,
I would love to be found
I would simply love to be found.
Thursday Afternoon
You’re making a left turn,
and I, in all my hazy contentedness,
smile at the way you tap your finger
on the steering wheel to the beat of the music
You sigh heavily at the oncoming traffic,
your impatience endearing
Sun peaks between cumulus clouds,
you just keep driving and driving and tapping and driving
I think about exchange rates of experience,
how bodies hurl through time and space,
the inertia of relationships and love and regrets,
how tied we are to our anxieties and fears
And yet, we know how to set them aside for a few hours at a time,
When you glance over at me, I give you a grin,
this found language we have that keeps us in sync
You change the music,
something a little bit more upbeat,
a taste of the sun that is coming out,
we talk about something banal,
but it still feels weighted between us
I pick at a stain on my jeans,
you spray the windshield fluid to clean off the grim,
I contemplate that even when this car stops moving,
we never do.
King Cake
You, a fève, holy in my mouth, saliva-soaked, peculiar.
Under my tongue, we return to one another, spellbound
drifters, when I swallow you whole. I tell myself that I
ingested the watermelon seed and you will grow plentifully
inside my belly. You will grow and grow and grow.
Until I cut you out of me. A flagrant act, unearthing
myself from myself. I was only ever interested in a kind
of suicide by surrender. There isn't anything worth
living for that you wouldn't cut yourself open to keep. And
even then you'll find yourself asking: who am I to you.
Who are you to me. Strangers on a silver anniversary.
And I am hazy on the details of the beginnings. My comings
and goings. I cannot predict what this future will hold.
We are phantoms in a shoebox. Vessels more than we are
people. Ideas more than we are human beings. A plague
traveling across the plains. We will still sneak glances to get
our nourishment. Blood pools from reopened stitches, wounds
stretched out like smiles. Stigmata for bugs, quite unamused.
Samantha Moya is a data specialist and writer. She currently resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two dogs. She can be found at Twitter/X and Instagram @samanthalmoya.
