“it’s a wet one this year”
This poem was originally published on The Pittsburgher’s predecessor, The Dog Door Cultural.
the people are getting on buses wearing raincoats
and here I am I'm blooming in my bedroom
I hold a heartbeat in my hands, heavy with the softness of sandpaper
and you're like a mountain with the ridges and the cracks
I'm the wind that passes over the gorges
and eventually wears down your ice pick edges
in the morning I'm baking crackers
and you're still just choking on the sunrise
we arrange the world in pink and pepper,
non-politely seasoned with too much himalayan salt
wine rich dahlias filling the size of the dinner plates
and a little nut of doubt buried by the squirrels deep inside my head
carefully cultivating poisonous genetics
planted in the lab-grown corn rows
and it's a wet one this year, monsoon mysteries
can you see the stitches
from where we separated the insides of ourselves from the animals?
hold back for a moment
and leave the tiger cage in the attic unlocked
let me experience what it's like to fight desire ▲
Elizabeth Adan is a lifelong artist who enjoys deconstructing the smallest moments and largest emotions, often at the same time. Her alliterative, lyrical writing takes on topics ranging from sustainability, nature, love lost/found, and community responsibility. A Pacific Northwest native, her true passion is the great outdoors, soaking up as much inspiration and natural color as possible. Find Elizabeth on Instagram and Twitter @edgeofelizabeth or at www.ElizabethAdan.com.