Pinwheel Mist
Breath collects on the optic nerve --
pausing, pulsing
pinwheeling the contours of fog
around a stunted headlight;
license plaque wearing rust on the backs of its white letters.
You lean your head out the window and when the mist floats in,
cold clutters my lungs — they are too little to keep the frost off.
You tell me the ghosts are ringing their bells in the trees
nipping autumn on a busted lip
calling the dying things down for dinner
a chorus of wet shaking branches
pushing them down the steps — like ginger.
Flat feet tiny palms.
I want to be that kind of fire, putting myself out.
I look at the leaves — bodies regrowing redgold
on the mold scars. You tell me it is the most beautiful time of year.
I tell you it carriages me toward a tremor
I look through the window and shake like the branches
You tell me it hurts to keep breathing and I think about floating
Like the leaves. I watch as they scour crunch together on their crumpling skins,
readying for boot.
Cold dew curdles in the clouds; seeps through hood-cracked car.
Searching for the engine.
It hurts to breathe the air sharp, the cheeks rawhide
teeth-torn
nervous chattering bones
looking to bite down on the whole revolver
trigger fish.
I can see the rain swimming in the clouds.
It won’t come down.
I can’t see anything when I hold my breath and you keep telling me to open my eyes.
The road summons another spiral and I argue with your breath
as it smokes up the dashboard.
The weather smells like bonfire tendrils and I am a soot figure
smudging skyline.
You tell me I warm something but I can’t figure out what
I wonder long enough to turn another curve, blinked half open
Breath collects on the optic nerve --
pausing, pulsing
pinwheeling the contours of fog
around a stunted headlight;
license plaque wearing rust on the backs of its white letters.
You lean your head out the window and when the mist floats in,
cold clutters my lungs — they are too little to keep the frost off.
You tell me the ghosts are ringing their bells in the trees
nipping autumn on a busted lip
calling the dying things down for dinner
a chorus of wet shaking branches
pushing them down the steps — like ginger.
Flat feet tiny palms.
I want to be that kind of fire, putting myself out.
I look at the leaves — bodies regrowing redgold
on the mold scars. You tell me it is the most beautiful time of year.
I tell you it carriages me toward a tremor
I look through the window and shake like the branches
You tell me it hurts to keep breathing and I think about floating
Like the leaves. I watch as they scour crunch together on their crumpling skins,
readying for boot.
Cold dew curdles in the clouds; seeps through hood-cracked car.
Searching for the engine.
It hurts to breathe the air sharp, the cheeks rawhide
teeth-torn
nervous chattering bones
looking to bite down on the whole revolver
trigger fish.
I can see the rain swimming in the clouds.
It won’t come down.
I can’t see anything when I hold my breath and you keep telling me to open my eyes.
The road summons another spiral and I argue with your breath
as it smokes up the dashboard.
The weather smells like bonfire tendrils and I am a soot figure
smudging skyline.
You tell me I warm something but I can’t figure out what
I wonder long enough to turn another curve, blinked half open
Katie Hogan is a twenty year old emerging poet from Richmond, Virginia, writing and living in Denver, Colorado. Her work is forthcoming in The Chiron Review and Ember Chasm Review, and she is currently pursuing an undergraduate degree in creative writing from the University of Denver.