works by various authors

anonymously- or pseudonymously-submitted works of poetry & prose

[rowboat-collective]

Ghosts

(Rowan B. Nicholson)

I had the sudden urge to hold my breath, driving past the new housing development

Like the way some people do with cemeteries.

Mom always said it was because you had to be careful

Not to inhale someone else's soul

And I always wondered what the range was on that

How far do you have to get from a cemetery before you're no longer in danger of accidentally coming home carrying something that is not yours?

How long do you have between seeing the cemetery and remembering to hold your breath?

Or is it the other way around

Is there a bubble of time where you're vulnerable

Can they see you before you see them

Could a crafty soul

a quick, enterprising soul

slip its way in between your breaths

before you ever get a chance to defend yourself?

It was different, though,

with the housing development.

There were no crafty souls here,

no quick, enterprising souls flitting around the top of the fence.

I held my breath as I passed by the housing development,

pressed my lips together like a gate,

not to keep any spare souls from coming home with me

but to ensure that mine made it out in one piece.

[rowboat-collective]

Anxiety

Yesterday the doctor called

Not him

His office

An automated recording.

Appointment reminder

Next Tuesday at noon

It is important that you choose one of the following options

To confirm your appointment

Press one

To hear this message again

Press two

To cancel your appointment

Press five.

I didn't move.

It started again.

Appointment reminder

Next Tuesday at

Yes I know

It is important that you choose

Yes I know

To confirm your appointment

Yes I know

That's what I want to do

To hear this message again

I want to confirm

Just press one

To cancel your appointment

No I know

Confirm appointment

There's still time

Appointment reminder

Just do it

Just pull the phone away from your ear

It is important that you

I know

I agree

Press one

Just press it

It's right there what are you doing

You want this

Don't you?

You want help

You want somebody to help you

To cancel your appointment

At least press two

It'll buy you some time

You gotta press one

Press one to confirm your

Wait

They'll call back.

[rowboat-collective]

love is first sight

I used to believe in love at first sight.

I believed in it because

over and over again

I would watch a girl walk into a room

and never want to watch her walk out

I would lock eyes with a classmate

and never want to look away

I used to believe in love at first sight

I still believe in love at first sight

Love is first sight

That feeling when you look at somebody and know that you love them

That’s looking at them for the first time again.

[rowboat-collective]

Elements of Being

(Rowan B. Nicholson)

Science recognizes one hundred and eighteen elements:

hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon,

and so on and so forth

all the way down

to livermorium, tennessine, oganesson.

I find it much less daunting

to stick to the original four—

earth, air, fire, water—

The universe is already so vast

endless

boundless

why do we feel the need to define every

little

thing?

On bad days, I pretend that I grew out of the ground.

I root myself into the earth

with my big square hands

and my strong round feet

and hold on with my teeth and my nails

like a dandelion with no head,

insistent upon growing here

right

here

in

this

spot.

On good days, I pretend that I am made out of a cloud.

I package myself up in silks

and point my toes

and paint my face in my own mockery,

and float down the sidewalk

on high-heeled skis

glowing pink and yellow

strawberry lemon.

On very bad days,

I remind myself over and over and over and over

that I am made out of fire

a rose out of my own ashes.

On very good days,

I pretend that I am made out of water

poured momentarily into a vessel

frozen into one shape

but only for right now—

tomorrow I can

and will

be something entirely different.

On days that are not good

but that are also not that bad

I am made out of some elusive fifth element

some impossible Option C

that is just fluid enough to know that it wants to escape

out of every pore.

On those days I am made out of stardust.

(Yes, I know, we are all made out of stardust all the time,

which also says something about what I am

all the time

but you can’t always feel it, you know?)

Some days, I can feel it.

Some days, I feel it filling me

prickling at the edges of my skin

fizzling behind my eyes

and I guess there’s a spectrum there

between stardust and just

dust—

but even dust is never just dust.

Dust is, itself, somewhere between the states of matter;

it’s made of solids

but moves like a liquid:

astronomers draw no line between gas and dust.

Those same astronomers say that stardust—

like the physical dust that eventually forms stars,

cosmic dust—

tastes like raspberries

and smells like rum,

and maybe that’s just what I’m made out of some days,

a nebulous cloud of raspberries and rum

and dust.

Elementally

fundamentally

ineffable

unexplainable

unlikely

inevitable.

[rowboat-collective]

[rowboat-collective]

Bubblemint

(Louisa Spencer)

The elevator smells like bubblegum

Pop.

You’re thirteen.

A pack of gum chews you through the day

Five dollars a week

Student special

You laugh about it

Your bubblegum habit

Too harmless for an intervention

If you always talk about bubblegum

They won’t notice the other habit

Questionable enough for an intervention

But only if someone sees

If you always smell like bubblegum

They can’t smell the shame

If you’re always chewing bubblegum

Their secrets stay secure in your head:

The gate’s glued shut.

They feel safe

It keeps your image handy

Rinses your mouth out in between

With soap-textured squeaky clean

The elevator smells like bubblegum

Pop.

Aching jaw just at the smell

Sugar-coated words stack neatly in your ears

Fill you up down to your sugar-coated mouth

Unbidden, your tongue presses the back of your incisors

They’d take over when your molars got tired

Like switching from right hand to left

Or from hands to mouth

You lean your head back against elevator doors

Or maybe against mottled blue carpet

They’re the same, today.

You learn better, they say,

If you chew the same gum

while you study and while you take the test.

You learned plenty, you think,

Chewing the same gum

day after day after day after day after

night.

The elevator smells like bubblegum

Pop.

You reel backwards and are stuck.

[rowboat-collective]

This isn’t me flirting with you

(Justine Hedera)

This isn’t me flirting with you

I’m talking

just talking

but the way you’re looking at me is daffodils

and I don’t notice

that I’ve stopped talking

I’m not even looking

but the way your hair falls is sunbeams stumbling on water

and sue me for staring

I’m not saying I want to touch you

but the way your hands rest is silken hammocks

and who wouldn’t want to curl up there?

I’m not paying any attention

but the way you hold your shoulders is marshmallows yanked flaming from the blaze

and that’s just the best way to have them, you know

I’m listening to what you say

but the way you say my name is pink wine over ice

and I get confused each time it wakes me up and pulls me deeper under

I’m taking you seriously

but the way your laugh spills out is a cool spot between bedsheets

and can you blame me for reaching for it

I’m looking at where I’m going

but the way your eye catches mine is the highest point in the path of a playground swing

and I get tripped up

I’m talking

just talking

but the way you’re looking at me is hot sweet coffee

and I want to live in this forever

but

this isn’t me flirting with you.

[rowboat-collective]

g***** b**** a*** d****

(Louisa Spencer)

he will press on your mouth with his mouth

and on your hips with his hips

and on your thighs with his thighs

and everywhere else with his hands

his hands

his hands

all at once

and you will feel the pressure of his body on yours

his body

on yours

your body

pressure

press

and of his mind worming its way in

through your ears

sotto voce

and it’s just for you

because you’re special

because you’re something special

because you’re something

something else

something he wants

wants

wants

he wants you

don’t you want that?

nobody wan—

he wants you.

and there will be a promise

and you won’t know when you made it

but you will know that you’ll keep it

they’ll talk if you talk

so you keep your mouth shut

until he opens it with his tongue

and even then you’re not talking

not talking

are you

don’t you

won’t you

you won’t

he will tell you that he loves you

and you will know

you will know

you will know it isn’t the truth

but we hear what we want to hear

especially when it wants us to hear it too

repetition is good for the memory

repetition is good for the memory

repetition is good

thanks for the memories

will you remember me?

do you remember me?

he will take advantage

of every opportunity

to take advantage of you

but you’re convinced it’s doing you some good

experience is doing you some good

this is doing you some good

learning is doing you some good

he’s doing you some good

escapism is doing you some good

you’re good

he said it’s good for you

good for you to grow up

grow up

grow up

little girl

grow up

climb up

lift up

wake up

stay down

kneel down

lie down

reach down

look down

hair in your face

look down

look up

look ahead

i want you to

i want you

he says

look up

like you’re topless and showing your breasts to the world

he says

like that

i like that

he will whisper secrets in your ear.

they won’t be his secrets

they will belong to everybody else you know

and then they will belong to you

and you will keep coming back to buy more

like exchanging currency at the airport

before leaving the country

and you won’t question where he bought his

or what he bought them with

or what he buys with them

sometime it will be too far

and you will say something

say anything

lie to him

lie to me

was it a lie?

who decides?

he’s not on top of you anymore

you’re not sleeping

that’s good

that’s something

you can move on

you can stand up

and you won’t say a thing

and he will move on

[rowboat-collective]

The Color of a Bird in Paradise

(or, A List of Things that Remind Me of You)

burgundy

periwinkle blue

forest green

vermilion

creamy watercolor paper

the taut outer skin of a plum

trailing wisteria vines,

clustered with weightless petals.

the delicate pink-blue-yellow of just before sunset.

a tenuous, trembling vibrato far above the treble staff,

escorted by the same pitch, in unison,

four octaves down.

crisp edges, precisely pleated

softly ornate,

like sugar cubes with tiny roses piped on top in royal icing.

a heartfelt compliment

on the single unique phrase in an essay.

the very moment that a minor chord

resolves

mezzo-piano

into major

like a warm tea-scented breeze,

insistently peaceful.

smooth cursive flowing from a sharp pencil tip,

and the velvet edges of a well-loved classic.

rain

in big round drops

or maybe a fine mist

or, rarely, a summer thunderstorm,

not cold, not warm,

just sparkling indigo.

raspberry syrup over chocolate ice-cream

pale blue silk and cable-knit mittens

charcoal

dusty rose

lilac

myrtle

and a single silver arrow gliding through the fog.

it falters,

hesitates,

then pins the window shut.