Zoe Cunniffe
things that can't be seen
one of these days,
i will walk out the front door, the grass sun-starched and yellowing,
sky pooling with a blood-soaked sunrise,
and with the town sleeping belly-up,
i will scrape my head across the clouds until they rust.
head pointed dead ahead, hills billowing like crashing waves,
a prehistoric dawn will emerge.
i will dip my toes into aching dirt, carving back the paths
where we walked—
hours like silt in our uncut palms, your body an hourglass,
sun slipping down your back like a cracked egg.
here i am again,
your reflection peering back at me from the rippled water—
you with the same callouses on your thumbs,
the same wilt in your walk.
i will lie in the grass at the the crest of the hill,
where you always swore we were inches from the sun.
red-hot stillness, grass prickly on our necks,
and then nightfall,
brushing our hands across stars.
i will breathe in the echo of the valley, wildflowers bending their necks
as the wind feathers through the garden, the gentle calls
of birds and crickets a silent symphony.
they say your house burned down the night you left,
but it was always on fire,
invisible smoke fluttering from the crack beneath
your bedroom window.
you could always smell the soot baking in the kitchen,
the flames lingering between floorboards.
last time i saw you, we were seventeen at the movie theater,
and you were in the front row alone, salt and popcorn, sallow skin.
you had scorch marks across the backs of your hands,
fumes drifting from between your lips.
you closed your eyes all through the second half, and by morning,
you were gone.
the doctors said i was in perfect health,
but how i bled in all the places they couldn’t see!
how your ache crawled through my organs,
untying every muscle and joint.
they’ll say it was a tragedy, a fluke,
that i got lost in my own backyard,
stumbling in circles until the grass was matted.
they won’t notice my car fleeing down the highway,
how i trace the horizon in my rearview mirror,
searching for you and all of the other things
that can’t be seen with the naked eye.
i will walk out the front door, the grass sun-starched and yellowing,
sky pooling with a blood-soaked sunrise,
and with the town sleeping belly-up,
i will scrape my head across the clouds until they rust.
head pointed dead ahead, hills billowing like crashing waves,
a prehistoric dawn will emerge.
i will dip my toes into aching dirt, carving back the paths
where we walked—
hours like silt in our uncut palms, your body an hourglass,
sun slipping down your back like a cracked egg.
here i am again,
your reflection peering back at me from the rippled water—
you with the same callouses on your thumbs,
the same wilt in your walk.
i will lie in the grass at the the crest of the hill,
where you always swore we were inches from the sun.
red-hot stillness, grass prickly on our necks,
and then nightfall,
brushing our hands across stars.
i will breathe in the echo of the valley, wildflowers bending their necks
as the wind feathers through the garden, the gentle calls
of birds and crickets a silent symphony.
they say your house burned down the night you left,
but it was always on fire,
invisible smoke fluttering from the crack beneath
your bedroom window.
you could always smell the soot baking in the kitchen,
the flames lingering between floorboards.
last time i saw you, we were seventeen at the movie theater,
and you were in the front row alone, salt and popcorn, sallow skin.
you had scorch marks across the backs of your hands,
fumes drifting from between your lips.
you closed your eyes all through the second half, and by morning,
you were gone.
the doctors said i was in perfect health,
but how i bled in all the places they couldn’t see!
how your ache crawled through my organs,
untying every muscle and joint.
they’ll say it was a tragedy, a fluke,
that i got lost in my own backyard,
stumbling in circles until the grass was matted.
they won’t notice my car fleeing down the highway,
how i trace the horizon in my rearview mirror,
searching for you and all of the other things
that can’t be seen with the naked eye.
Biography
Zoe Cunniffe is a poet and singer-songwriter from Washington, DC. She has previously been published in literary journals such as Blue Marble Review, New Reader Magazine, Doghouse Press, and Velvet Fields Magazine. Zoe can be found on Instagram at @there.are.stillbeautifulthings.
