I want to write this letter to someone in particular but I can’t reach them because of reasons.

Everyday Life

Dear B–

I once asked you to describe containment in the hopes that words would become a tangible net or spell and I would be safe forever.

Now, instead of a chrysalis I want:

Emptiness

Extreme space

I want open sky

I want rolling storm clouds and I want to feel the sting of every piece of hail as it strikes the ground (it’s still cold here, still winter–mostly).

But even though I have room to run now my brain is still caught in this weird mind snare that maybe was always there, I don’t know how long I’ve been walking around not noticing.

I’m having some problems and creative outlets help but I still have this awful hollow feeling in my chest and maybe if my body dissolved in the river or the obscenely wonderful streaky pink sunset I’d feel better.

So I want to know, now, even though I don’t feel very proper asking you (it’s not about protocol it’s that there’s so much more going on in the world and it’s President’s Day) but I’d love to know your feelings about the open sky and how you would illustrate the opposite of containment.

Call it freedom if you like

Call it emptiness

Call it a void

Call it silence

Call it the loudest noise in the world, a volcanic eruption

Call it whatever it is that you need to feel a lack of containment.

Sincerely yours,

Jessica

Note: This is an open letter. I’d love to hear/read anyone who wants to answer. Thanks.

The Echo of Something Hitting

Poetry

Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Halsey.

ISBN: 9781732036703

The first edition of this ebook was published by Jessica Halsey on April 30, 2016 and was titled RIVERKILL. This second edition has revised and updated content.

PROLOGUE

—words travel across the page in a sunset song sung softly your voice bleeds the line down a drop of ink on your tongue a stumble against the rumble strip a casualty of wandering and diesel fumes skinned haunches and shattered nose point towards the ragweed spine pokes through chewed skin defiantly the beginning of the line dresses itself in a drop of ink a hemorrhage here is the horizon bleeding down generations of sunrises and sunsets light comes up light goes down when you sing the road allocates flesh absorbs blood boneandfurfeathersscales pulverized to a fine sheen over the rumble strip and the verge the road stretches out sniffs with a dead thing’s nose gulps the sky with broken teeth—