Illusion Swims Over an Empty Pool
Feet swing above a blue tiled wall of a piscine / sans l’eau
as if the world has cried up all the water on the planet.
I rest my head on your shoulder and you lean in /to my support
as if we were both armbands to each other.
Somewhere behind a day I made into a memory / in my mind
you fake swim in that pool of dried tile / cracked sunshine
and our laughter reverberates between the stain at the bottom
and the gulls flying overhead / in circling sways
in case we chose to be bait for their beak.
Behind us / a taxi rides away / and we are left to decipher
how life drowned in that place / sans rêve.
Sometimes we sleep to dream / other times we slip our feet
into the emptiness / to dream…
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THE MIRRORS WE SPOKE TO
Those years lost in our own skull
buying presents to suit ourselves.
Hearing the wind rattle a council letterbox
though we never felt our fringe move.
We walked together though with a different
map. I wore glasses behind my eyes
clamped my watch to my ankle
so I never felt time leave my life.
We said we knew what to say
though neither of us heard the wind
at the letterbox, or see the leaves
being brushed away for another year.
The mirrors in our homes grew bigger
every month until the house showed us
who we were. But today I must leave,
find sunlight that shows me who I’m not.
THE STREETS WE LIVE IN
When we were kids the streets
became veins in our bodies.
We felt each day rush through,
flick on the sunlight behind our eyes.
The ball rattled fence panels
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To be Written Upon Waking
You wake to the winter dark
Closing in immediately
Targeting the heart
The slow, stabbing pain
It is one of those days
Where the mask will
Just to make it through
Reading doesn’t soothe
Eyes spinning at the words
Leeching away all meaning
Before the day’s even begun
Writing this down
As a way not to drown
And destroy the days of four.
The Daily Battle
I have no enemies
There are no lofty expectations
But my own
Still, the thoughts linger
A constant buzzing drone
Lacking any perspective
Imposter in my own home
Masquerader in my comfort zone
A detriment to my health
This warring with myself
Each poem is a balm
A therapy session to
Inflict no harm.
Scott Cumming never considered himself to be a…
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The Mansion She Inherited
she lives in a mobile mansion
inherited from Hopis in New Mexico
built with sugar cane and cinnamon
decorated with yellow flyers
hanging all over the wall in the dining room
blue stairs are one-way only toward Sirius
green, two-lane highway toward Orion
the curtain, knitted from butterflies’ dream in cocoon
windows open to the scent of Chaparral
she irrigates the field with a cup of coffee
filled with organic memories of her ancestors
non-GMO flowers growing in the backyard
are the only weeds she needs to crop
I saw a man
stood still on the edge
of the George Washington bridge.
His feet rooted into the river
and his hands offered birds
a resting nest but the man
was just a man and the bird,
just a bird. His roots,
taken away by the stream
and birds weren’t patient
until the spring ushered.
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