I want to see how you are under fluorescent lighting,
where your periods end and what your commas connect.
If you squirm at the muck of the river, if you’re afraid to slip on the sand,
and where your chains lead you to the lock on a door, a certain shelf
in your childhood kitchen (do you remember the address?), the cave of
crescent moons.
What does your body mimic,
how long can you keep your bare leg in front of the space heater.
Do you carry a backpack with nothing in it, or are your hands sandy
with dirty paper?
How do you portray “I can’t hear you” versus “I didn’t quite hear you”;
can you tell the difference?
Explain to me, “I guess I’ll just sleep on the floor tonight.”
How do you deal with the ugly or nonsensical, like the sweaty sun
rays of October or the splitting of two wholes you thought were
never connected?
Do you give attention to lamp shades and curtains, or do you thrive
on the vivid in the barren?
Do you know what you’ve eaten today?
Do you take care of the blood or do you paint the mirror for a while,
and is that taking care of it?
Where do your edges end, do you know you’re not infinite?

About the Author

Emily Sirko is a junior English major at Kent State University. She likes cold weather, film photography and record players, but above all else, she loves to write. She writes when the world is quiet and does not nag, most often in the space between days and on Sunday afternoons. Her writing usually stems from nature and her attempts to bottle a sample of its breath and transfer it into words, not forgetting to inhale some of it for herself along the way.

Contents

What I Want to Know About You

About the Author