At Dawn, Your Room Looks Aquamarine
A woman lingers salt-speckled
on the ship’s bow, bleeding
leaves of paper onto the ocean
and wishing she were a semicolon.
If she were a semicolon she could dangle
within and without the water,
could be the leaf that floats
and the ones that drown.
String of dental floss unfurls from the sky.
The wind could noose it around the man’s finger,
squeeze that digit to a purple plum, deplume it
like a loose cuspid lassoed to a slammed door.
Or the wind could swallow the kite’s sail,
let its gossamer meander back to earth,
let the man’s fingers and teeth wheedle free
only in his dreams, which he could interpret
as omens of coming undone, or not at all.
Alaina Symanovich is a creative writer hailing from the glorious cow pastures of central Pennsylvania. She completed her MA in English/Creative Writing at Penn State University in 2015, and is working toward her MFA in Creative Writing at Florida State University. She loves early mornings and her three guinea pigs, Buddy, Hammy, and Charlotte, and she strongly dislikes writing third-person bios.