Poems by Brittany Paige Siler 

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ABOUT THE BATHTUB

 

when i think i might like to die, i take a bath.
the trouble with wanting to be dead is, too early for snow, still wanting to see
snow.
the clouds out the bathroom window become the color of citrus.
one might think the trouble with wanting to be dead is still wanting to be touched.
the bathroom is getting darker, and the ceiling remains low.
the trouble with wanting to be dead is still wanting to walk slow, unnoticed, a quiet
street.
i should wait for the bath to get cold so as not to fill my lungs with warm water.
if i wait for the bath to get cold, my body is cold already.
i should wait for the bath to get cold so as not to die while it’s still nice.
the clouds are peaches. i could pick them and touch their skin.

 

 

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NOCTURNAL MOTIONS

 


a firefly hovers, blinking
at my bedroom ceiling

                                     

                                                                                   *

                                       *

 

 


                                  *

 

 

                                                               *

 

 

 

 

                                                                                          *

 

 

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JANUARY

 

when my mother came to town,
my fish died.

for years the tumor grew,
cataract white on its shimmering side—

abnormality expanding,
the golden animal was fine.

when the bus she rode neared idaho,
the growth burst

like the startling pop
of an extended spine.

flecks of flesh
floated around the tank

like flakes of food.
(the other fish misunderstood.)

the broken one ascended, belly up,
righting itself at the surface, fighting a pull.

maybe it’ll be fine,
i said when she arrived, maybe it’ll heal.

night. the fish are lifting the floorboards,
ascending from the hiding place.

night. the fish are in the washing machine,
on delicate.

morning. my mother smoking on the porch.
the fish resting, gold against fresh snow.

 

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*

in pursuit

                                                                                                                                       *


                                                                                 of appearance


                                       *


                                                                                                                                       to shine is


                                                                                                                                       *

 

please recall the moment
in the lake—
the blinking on
a fading line

 

                                                               *

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                   *

 

 

 

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MARCH 3, 2017

 

laying with the baby, he
on the platform of the crib
i, flat on the floor in the dark
my dark hair branches
lightly over the carpet
the clock
clicks the seconds past
the baby snores soft
accounting
all my mistakes from the day:
addition error
social confusion
all the decisions i was told were mistakes
the baby snores soft
in the dark i tense
my muscles in ascending
order starting
with my toes click
calves
click
snores soft
click thighs
click
the baby
in the dark
laying with
click
the baby snores soft
in the dark
accounting all of my mistakes
laying with the baby

 

 

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