by Emma Arlington M.
What You said: your eyes are getting darker.
What I said: they do that in the winter.
What I meant: They are in mourning.
What I meant: They see the undercurrent pulling up their shores.
What I meant: They are spinning words from depths of the sea.
What I meant: They are the same color as dying glacial bodies.
What I meant: They are the same color as floodwaters.
What I meant: They are the same color as runoff.
What I meant: They are ache and pulling and bodies and please and ruin.
What I meant: They are the shallow chill buried in the canal.
What I meant: They are the unearthing of pile up in rivers.
What I meant: They are drenched by the wake.
What I meant: They pour saltwater down your throat.
What I meant: They watch you in shades and shudders under the murky surface.
What I meant: They are mourning this passing of you.
What I meant: They expected it to feel like letting out breath.
What I meant: They didn’t feel a thing.
Emma Arlington M. specializes in cross-genre hybridities, refusing to adhere to traditionality within her work. She received the 2017 Goddard/PEN North American Scholarship Award, and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College. Her work can be found in The Pitkin Review and The Champagne Room Journal.