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eyes on / horizon by Emilie Kneifel

Emilie Kneifel

eyes on 8 by Emilie Kneifel
eyes on 8 by Emilie Kneifel
torn from a frantic nap into my perch in the corner. drowsy stare makes a masterpiece. the shadow paint. candied branch drip. white shoes on wet grass that glow like a fizz.

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today’s forgiveness: / measure day by the rain instead of by light.

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/ can never sleep until let go of my hand, until lover roll over. proximity-of keeps me defined in relation to. / shallow dream to be in the way.

//// /// /// / /// / / ////// / / //// //// /// //// / / / / /// /// ///// // ///// ///// /// / // / / / //// //// //// // / / / / /// ///// ////// ///

two: / wore a hat to a restaurant, mouth set. / clasped my hands. understood performance of godness.

fourteen: a mother’s sickness. enormous looming. whale belly passing overhead. but also somehow inscrutable, like the feeling that, even if watched, acne blooms are uncatchable. (why time lapses feel like a cheat.)

fourteen: instagram. controllable microcosm. cleanly defined by.

(a cheekbone glimmering in a beating room. attractive insofar as / attracted. another verb clasping for clasping for object.)

//// /// /// / /// / / ////// / / //// //// /// //// / / / / /// /// ///// // ///// ///// /// / // / / / //// //// //// // / / / / /// ///// ////// ///

twenty: invisible unraveling (“but you don’t look ___” chorus). at this point, / knew performance could misrepresent, even, especially, back.

//// /// /// / /// / / ////// / / //// //// /// //// / / / / /// /// ///// // ///// ///// /// / // / / / //// //// //// // / / / / /// ///// ////// ///

so, disappearing, / disappeared.

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windows the way my mom leaves the door. but / can’t smell the rain beyond pillow. beyond hair sliced off. still a shudder. like suitcase clothes worn for a life.

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first palms touched. glass between.

but quickly, like a runaway kid brought to a diner, when asked what would you like?
eyes filled with whipped cream, hands sticking to menu, myself awe-said, “everything.”

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(we don’t order all at once or we’d ache. but we come back and accumulate. the way players steal bases: settling, settling, static electricity until it’s safe to kick quick through the dirt)

//// /// /// / /// / / ////// / / //// //// /// //// / / / / /// /// ///// // ///// ///// /// / // / / / //// //// //// // / / / / /// ///// ////// ///

L says it takes strength to be reborn, so we stay a secret, don’t call ourselves / just eyes just hopping from window perch into street rivers. the joints of the storm wetting whetting calibrating into clap that takes two hands at least, a howl, a sky all light, then dark again. the day.

eyes on 9 / emilie kneifel
eyes on 9 by Emilie Kneifel
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Emilie Kneifel

emilie kneifel is sick and so is their mother. they live together in montreal where they grow poems and green tomatoes. @emiliekneifel.

Author: Emilie Kneifel Tags: essays Category: Creative Nonfiction November 1, 2019

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Empty Mirror

Established in 2000 and edited by Denise Enck, Empty Mirror is an online literary magazine that publishes new work each Friday.

Each week EM features several poems each by one or two poets; reviews; critical essays; visual art; and personal essays.

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