Somnambulist, by Amanda Carl

The blank of your face is
a severe winter sky
and your eyes are the unlikely circling crows.

Cesare, you hide

your sleepwalker eyes behind
your heavy coat
your heavy scarf
your heavy hair.

Peering through their own dark roundness,
they greet the cynics of the world.

And when they greet me,
I use a hand as my shield.

My confession is fluid
—beaming from my stubborn blush—
as I catch them in their stare.

When you tell me smoke, I smoke.

Then you watch me.
and I feel the heat rise from my skin
in a fragrant grey cloud
while I try and sleep like you–

without waking,

drowsily doing deeds I’ve always dreamed I’d do.

There’s still time to
glide through icy life like you—

behind heavy hair
and heavy scarves
and heavy coats.

Amanda Carl is a writer and musician from New York City. Her poetry has appeared in Halcyon Magazine and The Normal Review.

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