Author: Carmen E. Brady

Carmen E. Brady writes poetry and prose. She is in grad school for Linguistics. Her writing has appeared in theNewerYork, Split Infinitive, and Purple Pig Lit. She says things on Twitter and Tumblr.

Morning Soliloquy

I am nothing. Nothing. I am nothing and repetition can never make me something. I am nothing and I have some people fooled. I comb my hair. Sit by lakes. Eat handfuls of dry cereal. Watch people jump into lakes. Even on a cloudy day.

I felt a stirring that felt like something. It was only our stomachs squelching to remind us that our sex wasn’t beautiful. Our sex was nothing. I got up. Got dressed. Kissed you goodbye before you were fully awake.

6:30 am. Like usual. 6:30 am. Like always.

They jump into the lake for fun. Swimming. I hear them laughing. (We were laughing. We were drinking. We were fucking.) I see someone bobbing. Silver glimmers. Shimmering heads.

I feel confused. There are bigger lakes than this. There are bigger lakes to live by. To walk by in the morning when you remember you’re nothing. There are bigger lakes to laugh in. There are bigger lakes to drown in.

I feel confused.

Why don’t we all live by bigger lakes?

You want(ed) us to be something. Maybe I want(ed) us to be something.

It’s so simple to embrace the nothing. To take a sip that says hello, how are you? Easy to embrace and kiss in a way that means nothing. Easy to find a dark room, cover my eyes, scream and sweat in pleasure until I am nothing.

Still nothing.

Today will be hot. I hope your stomach still squelches. The water already sways with boats.

Morning said to say hello.

just rolling green hills

live near tundras like anything matters—
like a lump of matter means
something to someone.

we talk on the phone.
sent love letters when we were young.
i hear we’re still young.

i hear tibet is in shambles.
i hear budapest burned,
i hear these names and things
like bruges is bruised—no hope there!

we still breath
smoggy morning air,
pack a picnic,
sit in hot daylight,
forget our pit stains,
forgive our dirty feet.

because the dirt is still beneath them.

imagine it a square

tends to start with the gripping in your throat, the gentle eeee eee eee refrain in your brain
is hardly calmed by the shhh shhh shh from your mouth
like wine dripping, hunger gripping.

but he took away
the need to eat
made it so you were meat
instead, living off wishes, flowers, eating flames until
it all collapses into a back void
that you give birth to:

name it after me
let it rock you to sleep until waking seems
like something we would never do