An unshareable autumn night: you + I walked along sodium-lit sidewalks. Stars tucked themselves in squirrels nests but didn’t know how to hide. You laughed, pressed a wafer cookie onto my stretched-out tongue, collapsed the roof of my mouth. Who knew my alveolar ridge could bear so little unsanctified communion? My cheeks bulged with impious points of articulation. I only wanted to pronounce words we never know how to say, spit them on the grass to see sparks of uncast magic. When you were too shy to clear the wreckage, your teeth became coated with unutterable affection. You blamed the snow that hadn’t yet fallen, that would melt when it hit the ground, that would never turn the sidewalk slick with unmissable opportunities. I almost enchanted you, you know. I sketched cryptographs around my wrists; your incantation hummed without a single voiceless stop.
Types of magic that only exist after 10 PM on moonless Saturdays in November
Posted inCreative Writing, Poetry Posted by By Jessica Coles November 13, 2021
Last updated on December 6, 2021
Jessica Coles (she/her) is a poet and editor from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada (Treaty 6 territory), where she lives with her family and a judgmental tuxedo cat named Miss Bennet. Many years ago, she got a B.A. in linguistics that she currently uses to write love poems. Her work has appeared in Prairie Fire, Moist Poetry Journal, and You are a Flower Growing off the Side of a Cliff: a chapbook about mental health and resiliency (League of Canadian Poets chapbook series). Her first chapbook, unless you’re willing to evaporate, is available through Prairie Vixen Press. She often tweets micropoems and creative encouragement as @milkcratejess.
Write a household poem
What fades to background?