What if we were just two horses in a river - SAm Moe
And we didn’t need coral-coded kitchenware, and we weren’t good at cooking. Maybe I’m not talking about horses, maybe I’m talking about angels and you’re not paying attention, you don’t know the difference between cloudy grey hooves and creamy blue wings, you have no self- control, glancing at my hands as they move when I talk, listen I am trying to tell you something important, that last night at the bar when we accidentally stumbled into the backroom, sure I was fingers and fists, your legs were brushing against mine, your eyes were blue then bronze beneath strange strobe lights, there were angels drinking in the fountain and the DJ was playing songs about magic and fury, but what happened when you left me alone against the back wall? You turned to look at me like you’ve never touched my body, and soon we were rushing the highway back home, our taillights were gold feathers, you told me you didn’t know what I wanted out of this life anymore. It’s not my fault I’m restless, I want to be taken seriously, I want to own up to a halo, I want a wing bone to stab me so deeply in the heart I turn blue and cold as a stone. So, this is how it goes—you accuse me of lying, after we fought hellhounds in silence, you took the words from the walls, you bowed to the old gods and told me it was just another Saturday night, you don’t believe my arguments, you hate the web of forms, you once tried to drown me in lilac foam. Out front, I see birds picking fights with each other’s chests, the sky is crunched up against the trees, why can’t I stop loving you. Maybe this time, when I need a miracle, I’ll sacrifice more than a gauzy evening, I’ll take the hands and backs of the young gods, we’ll level out my heart, we’ll uncarve this wood, I’ll stop changing my language to meet your gaze, I’ll fade away into the mess halls where Heaven and three separate Hells collide, there is a fourth sphere whose name I don’t know, I try to access the space, not warm nor holy, not cold and devoid of fire, there are forty words for Harmony, ninety for Hallowed, none for hate or health, there are no hearts here, I press flowers into my eyes trying to get away from you but your fingers intertwine with an angel and I have to admit I hate how their many blue eyes reflect yours, hate their glittering pentalpha, no longer halo but weapon, they take your cheekbones in their many fingered hands—those cheekbones I once wrote the worst sonnets of my life over—and then the evening is dips and candles, a dashboard of emotions, you’re both growing extra teeth and I’m still here, at the edge of the world, in the mood to be eaten by wolves or water, whichever comes first, you disappear into the backroom, I dissolve into a leach.
Originally published by Diphthong Lit
Sam Moe is the first-place winner of Invisible City’s Blurred Genres contest in 2022, and the 2021 recipient of an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. Her first chapbook, “Heart Weeds,” is out from Alien Buddha Press and her second chapbook, “Grief Birds,” is forthcoming from Bullshit Lit in April 2023. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @SamAnneMoe.
