by D.R. Shipp
We lose first
the face and then
the feeling, like a thing
we hold before realizing
we have no hands,
no memory of holding,
no memory of hands,
just standing in
the hallway between
here and there
wondering what we’ve
forgotten. Scissors
maybe. Or some ochre
thread. First breaths,
first steps, the last
meal of the dying man,
prison pizza and icebox pie.
In a place beyond
anything we know,
your tiger tail
of dash and dust
might cross with mine,
an arcadia light years
from today. And perhaps
I’ll remember your scent,
your teeth, the bend
of your back,
before black arcs
deeper into black.
What is it that ever stays?
Even here, this moment
now, is already gone.
D.R. Shipp, originally from Texas, is an observer surfacing for air, a writer surfacing. His work can be found in Cleaver, JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, 3Elements Review, and Silver Needle Press, among others. He splits time between the US and the UK, between now and then.