night is me, she says.
she is confidence in shadows, navel full of moonlight,
lips parted and dreaming at the windowsill.
in darkness she is an outline to be envied, a handful of diamonds
shaking off the dust,
a glimmer with no sun.
where there is nothing to be seen
she sees a vision of herself
braided into strands of silk like
a delicate world wonder, a towering element
of temporary strength.
night is a pastime she keeps
in the linen closet.
confidence is a distant friend
that glows when no one is watching.
(Dreaming Tree by Christian Schloe)
When I died I twisted and turned deep into the earth where I belonged,
a topsy-turvy dance of the dead among rubble and missing bottle caps.
It was nothing like I’d dreamt, that slide ride into glistening depths,
feet first not face first like I’d seen behind eyelids.
I learned we jump into these things, not belly flop like children in summer.
It’s easy, no matter the circumstances.
exhale and night comes.
It’s the most beautiful solar eclipse; it’s numbing, cleansing silence.
It’s the ocean floor, the high-pitched ringing of nothingness,
the deepest sleep, cleansed palate,
I writhed when I reached the end,
reached out a hand,
pleaded for a push.
I’d grown tired of watching the world turn
when I was already halfway to the other side.