Paperdolls

There’s a place out on the edge of the horizon
that chases the sun as it sets,
that measures the lengthening of shadows
in eyelashes, in fingernails, hands,
arms, bodies, lifetimes—make a wish—
as the sun burns orange, pink, just a sliver there,
eyelash, eyelid—winks
out—There’s a place on the edge of the horizon
right up against the shoulder of the highway,
twelve lanes shooting past, glittering with motion
and the thrill of Soon
Not Here, of destination,
anticipation at 65 mph to just outta sight—
There’s a place at the edge of the horizon

where people go to stop. To begin again.
To erase themselves, and forget—
and forget—to replace themselves, to start
over and over—to forget—
It’s just a cluster of white-sided buildings,
old farmhouses repossessed and gutted,
shoved up together so close to the interstate
gravel pings off the windows
when trucks go by too fast.
We don’t have names here,
or newspapers to print the names,
or news to fill the papers
and we measure birthdays since the year
we realized we are nothing.
I’ve had my first birthday six, seven
times now. The little cake, the single candle,
the breath, the wish, the house on fire.
Through the smoke
there’s a sliver of sun
curved like an eyelash, like something
long discarded, lines traced on lines traced on
skin. New people arrive all the time,
widows, fathers
newly divorced, middle-aged children
with the ghosts of old playgrounds
in their pockets, in their hands.
And there’s something
in their eyes and in their shoulders
and in the smell of their hair
that’s familiar—their voices—
and the brittle curve of their bones—

I should know them—

Make a wish—

They disappear sometimes
in the middle of the night,
slip outta their empty white houses,
climb over the highway guardrail,
stand in the center of six lanes of possibility,
arms outstretched into the dark
as the sun silently blazes beneath their feet.

• 
• 511 of 686
•