Still, Nearby
Fawn Emmalee Ward
Human heatwaves circle outward, prodding
at the cool comfort of grassdamp mornings
and backyards’ soft, hushing wind. Still, nearby,
a close warmth of unwashed skin,
the scabbing friction
of calloused feet in broken shoes,
dry writhing, the noise of a grasshopper boom.
Jagging between relicked buildings, leaned
over rancid scraps uncontained by cans,
pieces torn from the wet beaks of frenzied gulls.
Discarded spaces, hot concrete as a home, refuse scattered
across any path. Sleepers hunch quiet in stoops and under overhangs:
a sock worn through, dandered pink fingers clutching
a soiled sleeping bag. This is how we’ve left them,
the others, unseen in clear sight. Not lost, but nowhere found.
These lonely paths leave no prints on pavement, they are hidden
from satellite view. From above,
only the limbs of skyscrapers show, punching
into the morning sun, the promise of plenty
and the source of none. In deserts
you must take what you can,
sucking the salt and sweetness from between
the spines.
Fawn Emmalee Ward is an author, copywriter and editor based in the Pacific Northwest. She strives to create emotional work with a strong sense of place that roots readers in experience and memory. Her work has been published by The Ghastling, Pinhole Poetry, Celticfrog Publishing, Meetinghouse Magazine (forthcoming) and The Reed College Creative Review. Find her @fawn.emmalee.ward.writing on Instagram or at fawnward.com.
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