by Holly Karapetkova
For weeks
I walked without casting a shadow
as though the sun knew
to no longer count me among the living.
My head grew fields of weeds.
I stumbled down synapses
no longer familiar.
It took hours to cross the living room
to the front door.
The only open roads led
back to the site of the accident:
if I moved without intention
I would find myself snapped
like a loose thread
hanging in the air.
Hanging in the air
like a loose thread,
I would find myself snapped
if I moved without intention
back to the site of the accident.
The only open roads led
to the front door.
It took hours to cross the living room
no longer familiar.
I stumbled down synapses,
my head grew fields of weeds
to no longer count me among the living
as though the sun knew
I walked without casting a shadow
for weeks.
Holly Karapetkova is the current poet laureate of Arlington, Virginia, and recipient of a 2022 Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellowship. Karapetkova’s poetry, prose, and translations have appeared in The Southern Review, Blackbird, Poetry Northwest, and many other places. Karapetkova’s second book, Towline, won the Vern Rutsala Book Prize and was published by Cloudbank Books.