Hannah Cajandig-Taylor
When the Sky Fell onto Us, Indicating the Proximity of End Times
I got sad enough to buy a waffle maker online. Carved out hours
to watch batter spill from its sides, never actually eating. Tried
purchasing a tub of cat-eyed marbles on Ebay. Cursed the platform
when I couldn’t find them in that sad shade of violet, cold enough
to keep the frost from thawing & there I was, standing in the panic
room, mouth against your starry mouth, smallness inside of more
smallness. Wanted to be your electric sky. Your rocket girl chasing
after a sonic moon. Can’t you hear me naming constellations
after you. Can’t you hear me comparing them to the coordinates
of every place we promised to fly away from. How many times
can the sun fall into the pit of our veins, rippling light through
our scar formations & yet I am still here, looking & looking
through pages of Google for a way out when there isn’t one
doomsday, there’s only every storm at once. Synchronized
drowning in a silent vacuum. Or maybe that was supposed to be
simultaneous floating, deathless end times & instead you & I
touching palms in flight suits, no desire for connection
to the earth or internet. No desire to go anywhere but up.
to watch batter spill from its sides, never actually eating. Tried
purchasing a tub of cat-eyed marbles on Ebay. Cursed the platform
when I couldn’t find them in that sad shade of violet, cold enough
to keep the frost from thawing & there I was, standing in the panic
room, mouth against your starry mouth, smallness inside of more
smallness. Wanted to be your electric sky. Your rocket girl chasing
after a sonic moon. Can’t you hear me naming constellations
after you. Can’t you hear me comparing them to the coordinates
of every place we promised to fly away from. How many times
can the sun fall into the pit of our veins, rippling light through
our scar formations & yet I am still here, looking & looking
through pages of Google for a way out when there isn’t one
doomsday, there’s only every storm at once. Synchronized
drowning in a silent vacuum. Or maybe that was supposed to be
simultaneous floating, deathless end times & instead you & I
touching palms in flight suits, no desire for connection
to the earth or internet. No desire to go anywhere but up.
Biography
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Hannah Cajandig-Taylor resides in the Upper Peninsula, where she is an editor for Passages North. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gordon Square Review, Drunk Monkeys, Coffin Bell, and Third Point Press, among others. She has been nominated for a Best Small Fictions award and still plays Nancy Drew games on her computer. Find her on Twitter @hannahcajandigt, or on her website at www.hannahcajandigtaylor.weebly.com
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