I remember the stillness, the stillness of thunder left behind, the stillness of knees held tight together, breath exhaled once, twice. Over time, each second, sweat on my palms. Broken records stored in a closet, their shards gleam in the darkness, each groove a year of life. Moments on the floor, surrounded by books written in a language no one even reads anymore. Don’t move or you’ll upset something. Wait. Don’t speak. Someone might think well of you. Hold your breath and time will stop, a sun held between my two palms, no bigger than the space between my fingers. There is always that stillness. Quiet quakes in my chest, drips down my back. My moments are shattered glass. A chair flies across the room, hits me right on the temple. For some reason I live. Make-up covers the bruise, covers everything. He hands me a glass of something dark to drink. It changes from purple to black, a sun dropping to the bottom of an ocean. Was it me who once pushed back the entire wall of my house to become the doll inside?

Listen to this poem:




Photo To Capture a Star by TimOve used under Creative Commons License (BY-2.0)


About Author

Rachel Heimowitz is the author of the chapbook, What the Light Reveals (Tebot Bach Press, 2014). Her work has appeared in Poet Lore, Salamander, Crab Orchard Review, and Prairie Schooner. Her work was recently a finalist for the COR Richard Peterson Prize and she has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. She has just received her MFA from Pacific University.

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