“The Deep End” and “underbridge”
Posted by admin in Glazner Prize Second Place
The Deep End
by Annalise Lozier
The sun bobbed in the sky
like a peach in the water. We sunk
below the surface and you
were the apex of a triangle. With the light
slicing past you, I was hidden
in your faded glow, a planet in the dusk;
and my fingernails, which my dad said
made me look like a homeless goth
looked to you like worn-down continents
hidden in the binding of an atlas. Your face
falls apart like tissue paper, dark purple
and melting in the past. I can never
really picture your nose and I can’t say
how often I’ve mistaken your smile
with the pointy chin of the man
in the moon, but your silhouette still burns
on my eyelids. You’ll be relieved to know
I don’t love you, cross my heart
and burn out my eyes. Your fingers
pushed through my chest
like it was so much dust, you tapped
the metal hatch to ask if anyone
was home, but there wasn’t--
it was only me and a few gray teeth.
underbridge
she had a face like sarcasm, her teachers said
she scraped the paint off the walls
when she skirted too close to the edge
of the room
under her shoulder blades she could pull
back the muscle and untangle the tendons
the tendons wrapped around her bones
played with her joints like a rubik’s cube
when she spoke she looked
towards the windows or at the wormy yarn
knit its fingers into sweaters she laughed loudly
to cover the cracking sounds her spine made
she laughed with her teeth bared
she had a face like cherry pie
cherry-stained teeth from the juice
the juice that bled down from her gums
cherry pits carved holes in her eyes
she liked the taste of her lips in winter
the way the snowflakes melted in the stinging
ridges of skin, she liked making animals
from pipe cleaners
under her eyelids she kept veiny webs
watched them change colors
in different types of light
she gave up before the clouds
the clouds crept by, she didn’t see them pass
she didn’t mind how it crawled
up her arms, how it burned
she gave each red dot a name
she watched as darkness scared them off
searched her body for scars she might have forgotten
she had, wanted outward proof in the form
of locusts that all the wheat
the wheat was dead where it stood
the tall grass shuffled its feet
looked down at the ground
warm toes tucked in dried manure
it looked up at her with grainy eyes
“you are the opposite of going somewhere”
she dropped her breath out of school bus
windows, let it unroll in the air
the air that carved it into fractal shapes
she reached out for it, but it didn’t come back
she had a face like a paper shredder
cheeks like birds’ nests or half-words
curled up like brittle plastic ribbons
she tied the same blue bows
looked like they could paint constellations
or sit on other planets, sometimes they told her the sky
looked like octopus arms they said, “the difference”
the difference, she knew, was real stars
always glowed in the dark
she spent so long telling stories to pushpins
when they fell, scattering her floor with faces
like autumn leaves
“man down” she whispered, peeling back
the cork that let them go
selfish like pushpins, a frame of zigzag corners
held her life at angles like the breeze
the breeze that skimmed over the hills
knocking off their crowns of powdered sugar
only like a rubik’s cube when she squinted
she could use her throat like a telescope
pull out her esophagus with her first
and second fingers, painted mermaid green
see down the endless row of people things
like bicycles and corn, down the cross-stitched street
she had a face like a caterpillar whose thoughts are wet
with milkweed and yellow stripes, the wind
the wind turned her eyes to disaster scenes
a desperate flurry of sunlight and seeds
a little monster with explosive white wings
Annalise Lozier is the second place winner in the 2016 Glazer Prize for Creative Writing.
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