A poem by Bekah Black.
I perch on the edge of the cold metal chair
Lean from beneath the awning
And learn by seeing.
The clouds cluster thickly, pink clots
Whisked from air, sunned cream frothing
Even while gray breath frosts at the horizon.
As the rims of that incoming gray
Near me, they drain to white
Even as black pools bubble up in the center,
A stain in an old rag,
Smoke puckering to a bruise.
Its cold exhale touches first, knotting my hair
And throttling the wind chimes, but still they flutter
Patiently, gently, like the birds
Singing, cheery despite the
Gnashing indigo puffs
That are the imminent future.
One thing I’ve learned.
Clouds move without moving
Like children growing up.
When you glance away and back their eyes have changed.
They’ve seen things you haven’t seen.
Their edges have wisped to thread,
Their throats gaping white to swallow the incoming world.
Bekah Black grew up in Pittsburgh, as a child writing novels about gem princesses and as a teen writing angsty poems about ribcages. Now, a college graduate and fledgling adult, her essays, stories, and poems inevitably circle around bodies and body imagery, nosing about in the sacred mystery of what it means to have one. Her work has previously appeared in publications such as Levee Magazine, NCHC’s Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creative Activity, and The Bookends Review.