Breaking the Fog
Appears in the Greenleaves 2024 Anthology
Sometimes I like to wade in the ocean.
Only sometimes, though.
It’s a lot of work, actually–pushing through the waves.
Occasionally, when the clouds hang low,
I take my time.
The sun won’t set over the horizon. In fact–
There is no sun out here. It is stubborn;
That is, in the sense that it hides.
It hides from its reflection overtop the water,
It hides in the glowing clouds, embracing the water droplets,
lighting the water with an airbrushed glow.
The moon at night takes on the role of a beacon, a guiding face.
The clouds encroach across the cool,
as Some recondite reference to some open sky, or seafoam.
Infrequently do I drift out this far.
The sky is gray, the clouds are gray, and the water numbs my extremities.
Sensory deprived I float and float and float.
Both cloud sky and sea are the same.
No different is my person, my self.
This time is made anew
some rebirth through ocean waves.
I wait until the fog is so thick,
So thick that I cannot see, so that I cannot feel.
So that I cannot feel whatever may happen.
through the fog beams crepuscular rays reaching out for me
picking me and me alone out in the vastness
i roamed until now
i float threadbare exposed
exposed by light—restarting time as I rise above the water
above the clouds
peering through the break in the fog.
Vast Oceans of Access
Appears in the Greenleaves 2024 Anthology
Stranded grasping at shredded paper,
vibrancy bleeds out from some altercation.
Between heart and mind’s eye,
offered everything in the world,
pools—oceans— of it,
a lone island defender defender
lives off salt.
Each boat crafted, sinks deep,
into the sea spiders and jelly webbing.
Numbed by the stings
frequent in occurrence;
Feeling becomes fantasy,
numbness proves foe.
But waves,
waves of salty reflections, resold repeatedly,
wash over time and time again.
Whirlpools of hyperbole
pull on corneas,
And pluck them from sockets to wither.
Much like a mummy,
Following the brightest most colorful sign,
addicted to stimuli.
Suffocating in sand.
A Starstruck Reverie
Appears in the Greenleaves 2024 Anthology
I sit and stare into blank saucers: she
And I, intertwined in both yearning
And nostalgia. I look to her only to have Jupiter reflected back upon me,
And for whatever reason, she looks back at me with tender affection as we say in unison, “the poor thing knows nothing of hardship,” An expression to expel,
And breathe.
And yet, I want not to be here, but to be there, with her—
And we both know that is currently impossible. With palms, pressed and cool, against the glass, blocking the static white
And gray and cratered body, I beg. I beg to be where she is but she cannot be without me
And my… sacrifice? I know nothing of such semantics,
And yet, I feel as though I am gifting away a lifetime by my presence here, rather than there. I want what she has to offer but she is locked away in the shady half—unseen
And barren.
And I am fixed here by frost, enamored by an orbit I, as myself, will never know; but, as her, I will look down upon myself planted on cold ceramic.
The temporary is a comfortable place to sit as cloudy daydreams fog my eyes.
Infinitude
Appears in the Greenleaves 2025 Anthology
The fear of dying seems to be overruled by the fear of being forgotten.
Wanting for every aspect of this life to permeate through thick buttery rays plating future skins with purpose.
Life to feed off of it
thriving till death.
Breathing in and holding on to it until streamers and sequins explode out in a glorious shower of childish whimsy.
To be immortalized in the sun and the rain,
a constant memory,
ever-changing in harmony: recycled stardust
an eternal legacy.
Xoxo
Appears in Rewrite the Stars Issue VIII: The Human Experience, 2024
At some point or another, I will no longer be a teenage girl
sitting in my teenage girl room,
with my mascara-stained desk
and cluttered vanity,
and bags of chips and old shopping expeditions sprawling across
the barely visible floor.
At some point or another, I will no longer seal my envelopes with a pink glittery kiss.
I won’t have my teenage girl emotions,
or my teenage girl bedspread all pink and
floral-y.
All my clothes will have a home.
They will no longer be stacked in corners and
on chairs
I will retire my bows and instead wear
low tasteful buns
or elaborate updos—
if it’s a special day.
My heels will be neatly stacked rather than scattered trails to last night's excursions.
I will no longer cry
when someone raises their voice at me.
And at some point or another,
the rage will leave me.
It will feel like expelling the air from your lungs when
you didn't even know you couldn’t breathe.
I will not forget, but I will be at peace.
I won’t be her, but
I will still carry her with me.
Tidbits from the vault
Some of my favorite unpublished works!
coming soon
Z.M 