Photo by Xavier crook on Unsplash

We laid together on a cold bench that only stayed
half up, missing a leg. The difference has faded
between the sunk boards and the loose nails.

A birch tree stooped over us, hanging the winter
sky from its’ frozen branches. And the night, white with no lights
floated gray, among the blind blue
birds that couldn’t find the south.

I gripped your hand, colder than mine, harder, wishing the clouds to fall
over the clocks of the station, to stop the train
before the eye of the coming dawn found us, taking you
away, making your place an empty space.

So I bit my chapped pink lips
till I fell asleep in your army coat, knowing
I will wake looking for you, and find only
your letters that I kept in my girlish bootstrap.

--

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Photo by Dima Mukhin on Unsplash

I am the crackhead. The skinny blond guy with a barcode tattooed on his arm
coming around the corner, to sell you.

I am the gloveless hand. Freezing,
waiting for the late bus to Monday morning.

I am the pissed newsstand man. Crouching by his heater
surrounded by papers with a single headline, as much as I am
the art student, broke and asking for a loosey.

I’m not the something sharp
you’re looking to cut your wrists with, but I can be
the half bottle of Scotch under the morning table
that makes you, stand me
long enough for another day, done.

--

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Photo by Alex Moiseev on Unsplash

A poem for a girl called Summer

The sky is heavy.
It hangs low on the rooftops, and miles and miles
of traffic places distance between you and home, and the memory
of you being in love is stretched thin over days that become years, then
haze grey in your mind’s eye…

Fall asleep, Summer.
And open your eyes.

Watch the white snow fall outside your window.
Turn the streets into your canvas that
falls in love with the colors of rare, and your eyes
that see life as moments within a memory, beautiful
like the tiny grains of sand caught in your long brown hair —

--

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Photo by Stephen Ellis on Unsplash

I don’t know when I was born. I imagine
it was cold and muddy outside, like freezing rain.

I name my days different shades. Today is
purple — I am still colorblind.

I wait for autumn. The thick branches darken like angry veins
when the dying leaves fade into the light.

Warm blood spills from dainty hands, black on white
makes the shy snow hiss alive, hating the winter, the silence

and the small roads that wander
lost in the weather, the loneliness of existence.

--

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Brien Feathers

Brien Feathers

Author, poet, screenwriter, and cat enthusiast living in the land of Mongols.