eliza fisherman
drawing & poem — two pieces, one breath
A drawing in ink on paper and a prose poem that loops.
Loop · Psycho-Location
In the mornings, I take it out of my chest and smear it across the page. Watch as it turns everything bitter — the sunrise, the coffee, and waffles and cream, the outfit I picked out last night, the color of my eyes. They flick over my shoulder, check for you, and finding nothing, fall to the floor, roll under the couch so people won’t know that I know: they get partners, and I get this — the thankless task of holding myself together as I slip sand-like through my own fingers.
In the daytime, I give up and resort to begging God for help, salvation, deliverance from it. God remains stoically silent, as though saying: I gave you the answer — listen. You chose to sit Virgil at its bedside. Nodding, ignoring its excess weight, I rise, take a step.
At night I pry open my rib cage. Whisper, come home now. It nestles inside. And for that one moment — with the memory of your stubble warm against my cheek — the ache lifts, and I can almost hear God sighing.
In the morning, I take it out of my chest and smear it across the page.
