i am a swell and heave. oceans. fuck. water is never the right word. i am a fierce and angry. i am an oh. i will bring you to the brink with moan. hear me through the walls and floor and press yourself against the unseen. hail that hurts. a battered back and the undersides of
i am unto, into
remembering, filling with blood. growing. moving up into a tree. a sky. a fuck-all cut open. screaming from
we will all become agonies, leaving our floors behind. our legs and feet will go numb.
i will cry with both eyes and a mouth open. in this
we will all become unreal.
i know you can see me and hear me through the window. when it was over, yesterday and in the just-morning (mourning), you raised yourself against the glass and pressed up a hand. i almost saw your mouth move through the two panes and the air in-between.
i forget each time i am not alone. i forget each time i am alone. i have found the meaning and roll into and around it. i am a tongue around lips, i am
a special kind of curl, a hardly forced
there is nothing ever as low as the fall then, after.
there is nothing ever like a woman in the sea.
this is dark water that turns almost to dust.
this is a coming into
Claire Phelan lives in New York. Her work has been published in The Newer York, Keep This Bag Away From Children, Left Bank Magazine, What Weekly, and Danke. She can also be found on Twitter and Tumblr.
The first issue of her zine, “MEAT STORIES” is currently in print and available at Etsy.
She has three prose poems in Electric Cereal.