13 Aug Eli Lynch
BERLIN HAS LEFT ME DEEP (BRUISES)
Just when I think I can tell you I feel nauseous on the bus ride to Prague, I am still
hesitant and you’re deep sleeping.
I am falling asleep and waking up with a nose bleed. The guy beside me looks like
my last tattoo artist. He speaks German to the man behind him.
I smell breakfast potatoes and eight a.m. tram rides and your sixth beer and I am
I smell your Dove for men’s shampoo and the curl of your bottom lip smile and beer
cap poker chips and I am nauseous.
The bus hits six bumps and makes four turns.
I didn’t try to see the Berlin Wall.
She tells me she thinks there is no speed limit in Germany.
WALKING AWAY SLOWLY, 1.5 MILES PER HOUR
I tell you that I am writing to you as an aesthetic experiment in perception. You tell
you’re writing a paper on the dandruff in my hair and the way I wiggle my legs when
I’m anxious and the way I navigate space in a small room. You love space. I sidestep
your hand trying to fix my shirt collar and you lean into the hug I offer you. I sit by
the window to pretend I’m outside. I write in my notebook pretend I’m inside. I
chirp a poem to you and you take it in your mouth happily. We try to push and pull
and it breaks in two. It sprouts two individual bodies, wiggling away from us. We
watch as it takes them two hundred and forty seconds to get to the patch of green,
finally hiding. We count the seconds on our fingers. I count the odd. You count the
even. When the poems disappear, I tell you I need to leave. You tell me you didn’t
imagine being outside with me. I tell you I’m always inside with you.
Eli Lynch is a Creative Writing student and barista living in Montreal. They are part of the Editor in Chief collective at Spectra Journal and have been published in Subversions: A Journal of Feminist Queries. They tend to clean when anxious or drink coffee, and only one those things actually helps.