Blue Line by Jessica Rizkallah

can’t decide if the sunlight makes everything feel like poetry or if it illuminates

the poetry that’s already there — i guess that depends on how i feel about poetry

today

 

how i feel about the consistency of this moment: the olive oil

shining in rings on the table as the light breaks through glass stained with baby

hands.

 

the sun doesn’t dance with any colors as much as it just rests in the gleam of

wedding bands buried in hairy knuckles on the other side of palms filled

with blood kept circulating by rhythmic beep beeps

beep bee bop bop da do wop yeah, i

 

can’t decide if the playlist named after you makes everything feel like music or if

it’s just playing songs that have always been there, i guess

that depends on how i’m feeling about you today

how i’m feeling about the inconsistency of your face, the

music i hear in its place

 

i’m at this place where i equate Everything to art and Everything to the way it

feels in comparison with everything Else and i’m told this

is the last stop before Wonderland

the last stop on the blue line, the blue in the face line, this place where no uv

rays can catch the blue (in the veins) line, ultra violet light undisrupted by baby

hands that are grabbing for light elsewhere, so ultra violet beauregarde with too much to

chew, gum tucked where my pencil should be, my hands keep sticking together

so just

 

disregard me as i sit here waxing poetic equivalent to the soggy end of a q-tip,

here’s a tip: no one takes the blue line unless they want to be alone

something about, the sea, and feeling the blue on your face

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Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

One thought on “Blue Line by Jessica Rizkallah”

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