By: Anna Costello '28
Art by: Peiwei He
is there peace for Sylvia
at the bottom of the Connecticut?
all that kicking and fighting just to pass through time,
thrashing in aerated water
why not walk barefoot, heel-toe on the blue stripe
let go to that white tile paranoia —
in her nightgown moves from room to room,
looking up at the white lights
there is that night sky on I-89
like an overhead bridge, a respite between rains
maybe the cold would purge it out of her,
a lingering wet cough — still the latex odor clings
she holds up two lungs and an eye,
round pearl in one palm, the other over
her belly — still more to go, more to go
the water fills her wound like a chlorine pool in June,
she marries it with stitches
and waits for you and another scalpel.
a surgical theater, a house in the woods,
a house of her own takes on water
in long, delicate veins that trickle under the door.
when you’re older, ask her what does it feel like,
to be filled to the wet hair-ends with quiet
ask: did she float when it was all over?
Comments