—after sanna wani
i think i have forgotten how to live. i am looking at you,
trying to figure out how you’ve shed your chrysalis of
lowercase, how you’ve taught yourself to breathe in the
space between these rigid lines of prose. we are so much
older than we used to be, i think. the weather is nice today, i
say. i think i have forgotten how to speak. i think i have
forgotten what to do with my hands. but i want to relearn
the stanzas of your skin — i want to touch mine with the
same tenderness that time has scrawled grooves into
yours. i’ve missed you, i say. i mean to say I’ve missed being
alive, but my mouth is mutinous. those of poets often are.
wait. was i a poet, once? a body breathing dreams into
meter? there is a certain terror in claiming a feeling other
than numbness; in believing we have ever been different
than what we are. but you seem like a choice: to leave this
silent womb or find an end in it. when you ask me, are you
happy? i think of the world and its jagged contractions, its
syllables sharpened to teeth, its moths blooming to die. if i
listen closely, i can hear their brief dialects swallowing the
wind. Life is so large. I smile. Your laugh spills out and
slicks down my throat. This, I think, this is what feeling is. I
have not forgotten. You: sound splayed over full-throated
time — Us: a collection of winged hearts; beating; beating;
Trini Rogando is a junior at TJHSST in Virginia. When she’s not attempting to scribble down a half-formed poem, you’ll most likely find her procrastinating on physics homework, fiddling with four marimba mallets, or sleeping. She wants to remind everyone to not take life too seriously; no one ever gets out alive.