Kari A. Flickinger‘s poetry and short stories have been published in or are forthcoming from Written Here: The Community of Writers Poetry Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Ghost City Review, Eunoia Review, Riddled with Arrows, Moonchild Magazine, Quiet Storm, and Panoply, among others. She is an alumna of UC Berkeley.
You broiling repetition.
Each little sound is
too much to take today.
I want to be the crook
of a tree branch
with a silent
swish. I have
to be locked
in space, instead.
so many days.
But, nothing ever occurs.
In this space
nothing ever occurs.
In my head everything is trying
to occur all at once—the big bang
has always been that moment of delay.
Nothing occurs. Sound waits for
space to catch up. Measured
folds do not quite match up.
If I screamed out here—every
fleshspine would fill
in my space. I need
headphones to cover inside
sound with strings. Cover chewing
and television—the expansive need
with the touchless nature I cull
from inside this glass ball, inside this glass
earth—that is—repetitive motions
and swirls through dust expanse
quiet this remorse. Screaming
dust is nature. Not the loud chewing bear
or the electron-driven conjunctions. Not the deer
at the barrel or the slicing
of water droplet from leaf—from
tangible skyward beasts—from metal
droning decibels which arch through
All life is loud
repetition. Nothing occurs.
Again, I have been
waiting too long. We have all
We keep spinning
O we set our
on more clay.
Affix shovel. Affix