Jennifer Grey—who played Ferris BuellerŐs
sister in his day off,
just tiptoeing along
to Hungry Eyes
in the background.
Heel over foot,
Your eyes are closed.
And I still canŐt tell.
Here I am,
inŐnŐout of traffic,
trying to figure out
the 1,2 1,2
of getting off
which way is mine
and which yours,
(and maybe I didnŐt really know
what I was doing, really—rolling
on top and over you
to get to my side of the bed—
going without water.)
and not remembering
where it was
in between sleeps
and the rest
This room weŐre in
crowding our peripherals
our arteries traffic
congesting this highway
while you pull off
Ňthe big move"
Until the next,
and the next, time
we pull away.
Circle of Life
after Kim AddonizioŐs 31-Year-Old Lover
Used to be that the Birch
was MichiganŐs state tree.
Now it sheds compulsively.
With every wisp of wind,
thereŐs a collection of clumps,
of wooden snake skin
at its hidden root. Without warning,
it falls. As the dead have no way
of warning the living of their doom—
they are dead.
The lime green leaf does not know
purple is the last shade it goes through
before it unwinds from the stem, in autumn,
and gets torn from the root.
The birch will go on shedding
and will go on tearing,
filling the grass beneath with mounds
of former skin particle, bundles of nutrient,
each revealing a tear—a slit on the trunk,
a marking of age.
What ItŐs Like
For Neil Hilborn
Imagine the banks painted over in green,
not the green that breeds dark currency,
light green, almost unseen.
This is what itŐs like
to be a horsefly on a microdaisy.
Looks tiny even next to a blade of grass,
bound to get stepped on, like the drunken 40-year-old
they mistakenly let back on the kiddy swing.
This is what itŐs like
to be big Buddha, getting off his perch to momentarily
try to mend things, to jimmy up an oak tree just by hugging
with tight shoulders. To be the couple walking side by deltoid,
apple earphone in each otherŐs ear and saying nothing;
to be a pair of sunglasses shielding pupils only white,
dotted by too much strain. A pack on a subway, a sardines can,
bodies crashing into one another and on the moment of realizing
the forced interlace, the momentary connection, immediately unwrapping.
Do you know what it was to walk through your city
with both hands behind my back?
It was two cement blocks adhered to each heel,
trying to walk with leather pants two sizes too small.
It was walking through the divine streets and between
the twisted structures, looking up at that astronomical clock
and feeling only the wind across the small of my back
instead of your stranded hair follicle.
Do you know what it is to be lost
and not enjoy it?
© Nick Kondyles
Bio: Nick Kondyles is a recent graduate of GVSU in West Michigan where he studied writing and psychology. He is the writing editor of skipfiction.com and was the nonfiction editor of Fishladder, a writing, art and photography magazine through GVSU for three years. A fun fact is that he can speak Greek as well as English and can shake his eyeballs.