ISSUE 4

Scott Davidson

 

Suspension

 

In the time it takes this cloud of light to cross the floor

  we’ve left the bodies that walked through heavy fiesta 

    doors and it seems the light, by the path it’s taking, 

      has chosen who we’ve become. By the puzzle 

 

tree, almost touching, you the girl who can name 

  the moment life stopped revolving around her, me 

    the boy who stared at passing scenery from the car 

      and wanted to know how much it cost. Thinking 

 

we’re suddenly shallow is easy and misses the point –

  how days pile up disappointment so deep that by the time 

    we’re here, neither of us knows if we care about much, 

      only that so many closed circles – waiting for tables, 

 

waiting to order – keep falling short of how we imagined 

  them. Still not touching, disengaged from others, it’s 

    how we let these versions of us – their separateness – 

      change who we are. When our name is called, I rise to 

 

face the room of strangers, you striding off to join the 

  hostess, needing at first to match the pace of the world. 

    We are the selves who leave and enter together, 

      so you stop, wait, reach back your hand.

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