Emma Alexandrov is a student and a writer currently rooted in Atlanta, GA, Portland, OR, and Poughkeepsie, NY. She edits Windows Facing Windows Review.
Sharp of being, you are embroidering my heart in the hollows
of our silences. We are tracing paths: by night, you take me
in your hands, a fish arcing muscular in capture.
Then, moored on a table, my core loosens in a dish of light,
whistling as it’s flooded and emptied of air. As you watch it
from across the room, threading the needle, it bristles to unfold.
It’s in the stitches that cell slush means body and
carbon whirrings mean soul, I know, but my throat can only
splutter at the spoiled water dripping from our thread because I know
I must be placed, unbalanced, back into the grey
with your golden line binding shut the new window in my side,
with my jagged path ripping the placid surface of the sea.
Sea-Dream of the Substance of Another
Floating: the ocean makes in itself a space for me
to drift as a pebble embedded in mirror.
Giving nothing, taking nothing,
this dream binds impenetrably the horizon:
water smoother than a glass’s surface,
sharper than its edge.
Yet, a rival illusion takes root
in one of my mind’s simpler chambers.
You are a sheet of shade
wavering on careful legs in the dark
like a tree arrived recently to the shore.
Your shadow flows toward the water’s hilly field
and sends a song across it,
running on a city of delicate feet
that stitch ripples into the blue.
Your notes carve nests in my skin,
and, in still wholeness, hold light, spark –
Please understand, fair shadow:
you, in taking, give.
I owe this garden to you.
Singing me waterbound, you’ve granted
an ocean to root in, granted
sky burned with starflowers to bind my sight,
song to engrave with silence.
Do you see?
There’s nothing here.
I’m parceled absence
darker than the night
that rings the moon.