When the sky turns its back on the day,
I wish I could forget the color white.
The sleek curve of her collarbone
at midday, at dusk, at the moment
before unconsciousness. The unknowing
effect of this cruel, soft sickle. So like
a handle, it waits to be gripped. I don’t
know what to do with my hands.
Today they sparked at every brush of
contact with an inanimate object,
the wall, the light switch, the shaft
of a knife. I watch the blade slice
through the marrow of a fruit,
that sleek curve of color that
makes me forget.
Mariel Fechik lives in Chicago, IL and works in a library. She sings for the band Fay Ray and writes music reviews for Atwood Magazine and Third Coast Review. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Bettering American Poetry, and has appeared in Hobart, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Cream City Review, Barren Magazine, and others. She is the author of Millicent (Ghost City Press, 2019) and An Encyclopedia of Everything We’ve Touched (Ghost City Press, 2018).