colossally wrapped
when i touch the birth of the sky,
i will be cerulean.
from a plane, cars are buttons.
the sky is not a perfect blue
because all my thoughts are imaginary.
the flight attendant wants to say,
we’ve compressed and sealed you
like the swinging meat you are.
our hundred bodies slosh geography.
in the stale air
everyone is colossally wrapped.
i’m certain i hate clouds. i cut
the top of heaven
to get back to the ground.
i know when it’s all over
i’ll light a sycamore inside
all of my organs
and call myself a branch.
empty heaven of heaven
i put an eye patch
over the pain
because the sublime
cannot handle
the own dark glass
from which it drinks.
is that too full of opposite,
or are we all fusing
into the same struck deer?
each doubt falls plain
on the myths,
but don’t hold your breath.
i’m not so brittle
it makes the moon break.
the winter of eulalia
the infinite falls
as an apricot falls
bottomless
into the urgencies
where the summer
runs its stampede of boars
into the fullness of their limits.
i am vague only because i am asking
for the space between.
is immortality the off-white
of the egg shell,
or is what can’t be offered to the mind
left to shape second-guesses?
up the hill to the crucifixion
is a snow cold enough
to keep us from becoming
food for the ravens. the wind
shakes the dead saint gone
like a modern scarecrow.
gone into some white hour,
a white on white
that soon dulls in
the dark neck
of magpies shining
inside the ulcer of forgiveness,
so i don’t want
to explain myself,
or the ancient fog of my sins
as they lull the hills
with their petticoats.
Victoria Garcia is a poet and creative writer from New England. Her poem “Internal Mechanism of the Otherworldly” was published in Libre.Her poetry seeks the surreal in the mundane, and illuminates the line between reality and distortion. You can find her and her poetry updates on X under her handle @phantom_lamb.
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