Victoria Stitt: Stuck in Among
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
stuck in among
blown ash u emit an aura of ashes u
blow ur halo dust i touch the halo
a layer of grey paint coated on ur
finger u paint my face fragmented
features floating up + away features my
eye forward + right my bottom lip long
+ left a tendered patience each stroke
patient u press deftly to panel a thick
grey paint easy paint the grab the
ease in go like tongues on each other ease
oil merely compliments a mere passing
landscape behind eyes u oscillate ur
eyes the iris looks upward + at evading
+ giving generous
distance i touch the back of ur
head u move my hand so
i grab ur fingers thumb i smooth wrinkles
in ur joints + i hold then u move suddenly
i move i
blow forward i blow white ash
webbed between finger beds u horizontal u
curve spine sunlight compresses it follows
shadowed fabric ur soft hand on my neck
fingers compress throat not closed head
hanging in ease trapezius loose the birds
outside on the small tree blend with
brown shriveled leaves hang
weak tree-limbs white blossoms on
tree-limbs my knee softly bruises
ur hips ur
under-eyes blue translucent grey there
a valley between the mattress stained-sweat
skin greasy a voice carries bus doors
close horn blares gravel scatters a short
winter a sequestered spring it sounds the
same bodies echo it is
impossible to capture
at-once the ache in bladder the siff toe the
need the release of air the hammer-like
faraway voice mother the faraway voice
father the tickle in the throat the
release the chimes 19th street humming
cars faraway child calls the sound of saliva
released tongue from roof tongue the sun
on succulents gasp in the look across the
mattress a small withered concern stratus
light-stretched clouds filtered like
gossamer empty shelves in grocery
stores carts flown over unessentials
panic toilet paper bought long
sighs stop breathing
so loud from the back of your
throat the disdain is palpable like
webs of disease laced
corner to corner school tables
canceled leaving posts of radical
empathy sick leave rejected u touch i move
near it burns the virus scours ash i don’t
write things no longer re member or
see limbs fractured + fallen the
ligaments visible to whoever
buys the last hand sanitizer in the
end times does this love survive
because it should or because i
don’t want to be alone when it
all falls down my blue eyeshadow
peels off in red rash ash fallen raw
the dogwoods blossom white
speckled branches arch on spruce
and pine we walk hand in
hand so happy smiling a child with
two braids looks at me but does
not smile children know they know
more now untrusting of the world
they were born into cracked they see
i am not there i am floating above
us looking down asking how we
got here i hum
to quiet the soul ribs closing
opening again limbs close their flowers
quiet night my lips pressed against
the pillow
Victoria Stitt is a black poet and an English teacher. Philadelphia has always been home; her lineage may not have begun there, but it is now there, robustly. Her work has been published in Swarthmore College's literary magazines, and she is currently an MFA candidate at Warren Wilson College.
