Elly McCarthy
theorizing without a sense of the ground
I have a theory that thirty-degree wind tastes different in March
Like having forgotten yourself, before the frigid wall of used-to-be winter
Has you heaving until you remember
I have a theory that every time my dad woke into a bruised dawn
And drove four hours north he forgot me because he had to
I have a theory that the more we intellectualize our happiness
The horizon grows sharper with untouched feelings and it becomes
Harder to familiarize ourselves with another day
I have a theory that whittles away at the vacant caverns of my fleshy heart:
That everyone is fifteen, everyone is so fifteen that the road no longer feels like gravel
I have a theory that I was the translucent wine and the plastic cup too
The oven left hot and my brother’s icy rage
Even though I was actually it’s going to be alright
I have a theory that guilt is never an act of love
Despite its softness, lies sticky as it awaits a balm of forgiveness
I have a theory that it doesn’t get better until it does— and then it doesn’t
All of this avalanching in slow motion like waves, like the slow winding hand
Spinning cotton candy around a paper cone
Like having forgotten yourself, before the frigid wall of used-to-be winter
Has you heaving until you remember
I have a theory that every time my dad woke into a bruised dawn
And drove four hours north he forgot me because he had to
I have a theory that the more we intellectualize our happiness
The horizon grows sharper with untouched feelings and it becomes
Harder to familiarize ourselves with another day
I have a theory that whittles away at the vacant caverns of my fleshy heart:
That everyone is fifteen, everyone is so fifteen that the road no longer feels like gravel
I have a theory that I was the translucent wine and the plastic cup too
The oven left hot and my brother’s icy rage
Even though I was actually it’s going to be alright
I have a theory that guilt is never an act of love
Despite its softness, lies sticky as it awaits a balm of forgiveness
I have a theory that it doesn’t get better until it does— and then it doesn’t
All of this avalanching in slow motion like waves, like the slow winding hand
Spinning cotton candy around a paper cone
Biography
|
Elly McCarthy grew up in New Jersey and currently lives in Chicago, where she spends as much time near the lake as possible. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Hooligan Magazine, Moist Poetry Journal, and Raven’s Perch, among others. You can find her on Twitter at @naturallog_
|
