Words strewn, trail across your bedroom.
by your unmade bed—
used to tying perfect knots
for joints, satin sentences unfold
around your tongue.
I bet we could color code your whole bookshelf.
Spines hell-bent on answers to resolve my questions:
I. At what point can you breathe
in incomplete phrases?
II. Tie a sidewalk together
in misplaced steps?
I’ve been told I think too much.
And in you I’d found my match.
Guessing we’d be tongue-tied, tied-tongues,
I’d misattribute feelings
To my own body, so when yours was gone,
I’d have an index of it.
You’d never write yourself
into something without
and an end.
Celia Shea is a writer. If you're in one of her stories, she's probably compared you to something in the sky or the ocean. If she were a dog she's been told she'd be an Afghan pup. If she were a plant she'd be a weeping willow. And if she were an alien, she'd be the kind pretending to be a human. Her poem "Bookends" is one of the first prize winners in the poetry category of our inaugural Short Forms Contest.