I Am A Glacier

I no longer have the words but I’m afraid to let them go.
That’s why I have to say “crepuscule” instead of “almost getting dark,”

I somehow imagine that we can carve the light out of
our own obscurity, chisel each other’s breath out from the fog.
Like the act of feeling out someone’s perimeters for the
first time in the dark.
Cutting grooves into each other
with our bodies,
when even the static is chewable.

Do I have it memorized by hand?
Fat of a nipple.
Ingrown hairs.

The particles that separate us are
the same that bring us together.
If you listen long enough you can hear
them chatter slightly when getting all excited.

If we’d only stop flailing
we’d realize we float.

by Cassandra Troyan

Return to Issue 42