Writing by Avery Melhado
References from Richard Siken’s “The Torn-Up Road”
I’m walking down familiar streets,
the pavement cracked like spider-web.
In the sticky place moving from present to past−
in flight, mid-air, suspended.
It’s not syrupy like honey,
not so sweet in the same sense.
It’s indulgent, sure, or maybe trapping,
a moment torn from timelines, now timeless.
I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything,
I’d like to pretend I self-actualized,
playing out scenes where everything comprehends.
In my words it’s something else entirely,
made beautiful, then laid to rest.
If writing poetry is playing God,
then my bedroom is a heaven all the same.
But these stained sheets are from a blood oath,
one I took willingly, in which I stayed.
I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:
I passed a dead bird on the sidewalk.
It was decayed, preyed upon, eaten,
and just the wings were left−
a metaphor for something I wouldn’t name.
It was almost an angel, laying there.
Gossamer wings left to turn to grime.
It felt like salvation, like the last thing touched
could be what matters after all this time.
Tell me we’re dead and I’ll love you even more.
In a grave that’s not quite so,
this peace is left to fester,
and in its false pretention screams
a voice barely a whisper.
Everything changes, yet nothing moves,
each character losing their will.
Feathers litter the bedroom floor−
Can you see me there? Beneath you, still?
