ckSlack

​You Know What’s Next
 
The sink fills with half-rinsed plates. Any spoken word is rationed like oxygen in a diver’s tank. Silence hovers, fat with unsaid. When the kettle whistles, no one moves. When glass breaks, no one flinches. When the dog whines at the door—that’s the only honest sound in the house. The regulated air between has hardened into amber. No we, no I, no you, as the bed grows wider—just a suitcase under, ready like a parachute. The refrigerator moans secrets. No one will say it. The mirror develops static. Not yet. Every doorknob is an oracle.
 
**

Heartbeat of Steel
 
The girls knot lightly together, laughter slicing through air, skirts hiked high like flags of defiance. Smoke curls from their lips, grey ribbons unraveling toward the West Virginia evening sky. One girl, with dark feathered hair, eyes set hard like cobblestone, leans against the dim street light. Dried black smudges under her lashes contrast her pallid cheeks. She flicks her cig, the filter end rimmed with Bliss You Berry. Without a glance you see her walk past 7-Eleven, past the red convertible stacked with whistling, booming boys. Pink scrunchie on her wrist, she shifts her hips, savouring the snug fit of her favourite jeans, months in the making. The other girls pull at their tiny crop tops, sheer without imagination. She doesn’t need to look—her steps say more than her story, the rhythm of her boot heels ask no permission. Stronger than the steel they shape at the factories, harder than the radiant black pavement, she cradles dreams. You could follow but no one could dance to the music crying in her head. Here, girls live small, take what they can, stuck in summer sweat, fight for that back seat between two boys. But this girl—takes more than they ever will. She moves through the smoke and heat, shard-sharp, ignoring their stares and hooting, as they pull away. Always weighed down, she stands near where the road spits fire.
 
**
 
Stitched in Solitude
 
I reach around to peel layers of hot sewn patchwork morphing. Husk tailored to each acquaintance unique, seemingly unending, blistering bubbling fabric drapes over stuck skin. Kaleidoscope threads clamor. Collar and yoke ornate with buttons of bone weigh down to paralyze muscles stretched. Thin sheath varnished chokes connecting and expanding, pulls out lingering gasps from the lungs. Sigh capes ceaseless lament. Vast inner pockets brush steel wool to satin flesh. Scars and scabs designed to be hidden and quiet become shifty and daring blow away then return in night through inflexible cobalt seams. Cloaked, frayed hemmed edges surrender. Torment sirens my solitary robe to bolt and release stoking this hateful pattern. Ashamed to reveal smoky familiar membranes, encased years unfurl as it envelops, fitting into cavernous holes. Grief pushes me small. 
 
**
 
This was first published at Unleash Lit.
 
**
 
Here, Me Out
 
I wander among the corridors of belonging, the walls of which are both fortress and prison. Figures murmuring grey, brown and terracotta cluster behind locked doors. Echoes converse with me. Corpulent fog tumbles over lake water painting my day in the artistry of exclusion. There could be cold poetry in being unseen. Or beauty. Slivered spaces between the spoken and silent. Blow wildflower seeds. Respite in that small crack of forgotten wall winding to the damp shoreline. Milky morning tease shadows. Periwinkle blue whisper petals of longing. Dreaming vines rustle. Among the soft curved crackles of leafy memory - challenge the bristled voices buried beneath the din. It’s time to reclaim every last word as testament. 
 
**
 
The Sky is Only a Ceiling If You Touch It
 
I’ve stared long enough to see steam form letters, ghostly alphabets rising from birthdays of broth. Soup becomes a séance, summoning scents of forgotten kitchens. Echo of wooden spoons scraping grief, stuck on the bottom. Flames beneath the pot flicker like a violin string plucked in an empty room—trembling, unresolved, searching for a song that is not yet written. My hands are clocks, ticking backward into wet clay of childhood, where the moon was a spoon and the stars sugar I poured too fast—too eager to sweeten skies before night collapsed into hunger. Steam curling like a ribbon around a gift I never mean to open. Lid rattles. Quiet panic—a secret trying to escape its own heat.
 
**
 
Ascent to Perfection
 
flying blind there she is grazing treetops guessing her route stumbles upon a boy man with hands like David certain Michelangelo sparked electric as he carved and smoothed tracing each static finger up to his dimple then to his open lip spilling out whispers listen he loves into eyes iris shades marble streaks dilating pupils peaking outlines and carving bodies out of block as the shadow of divine is sought throw heads back into high renaissance in this time of perfection
 
**
 
She Calls Me Civetta
 
Her love is not loud, but beckons, as hot skies hang weighted in July. Across the Ohio border, roads tangle with gravel beneath tires, clatterpinging against wheel wells. After climbing steep switchbacks, she will hold my hand at twilight, walking back acres along the creek, narrating her land spirit. Crank up the car windows as dust streams from the station wagon’s belly. We will find textures of ancient marine life within Indiana limestone: Trilobites and Brachiopods, outlining each baffling skeleton with our fingers. Whiffs of sweet, sunbaked hay mix with billows of metallic dust. One more turn to go, past weathered signs—Hilltop Farm, AKC Registered Collies. The swollen hill captivates, barely wide enough. Gritty rocks tumble left, as the car interior dapples darker under canopies of unspoiled trees. We will sit on scratchy woolen plaid blankets, tenderly shy, absorbing her sentience. No relief, sticking to my seat in pastel seersucker shorts. Until the very last bend, back wheel of the car slips, heart thumps right in my throat, sunshine strobes at the clearing, statuesque corn on one side, red brick farmhouse ahead. At the crest of the hill, long armed iron gates and a last hand-painted board that says Honk, igniting a chorus of barking and high-pitched yelps. Streaks of gold and white, black and white, behind gates that drag dirt in an arc, bolted onto worn gray barns. We come to the altar and will linger until lightening bugs hover, streaming Milky Way beams on us. Rolling down windows as freshly cut grass jumps in my nose, reaching hands to wave hello. Counting all life as a gathering of gifts—her constant canon like moon crescents gold. These are all God’s creatures. Gossip with breeze, leave apples where they fall, at dawn, the deer come.
 
**
 
This poem first appeared in Unleash Lit.
 
**
 
ckSlack is an emerging poet currently living in Pittsburgh, PA who began writing through her journals as a young woman with a life-long love of words, nature and Thanksgiving gatherings with her family. She is influenced by Renaissance and Surrealism art and inspired by classical and alternative music. She has been published in The Ravens Perch and Unleash Press.