THE SKY'S CIGARETTE PUFFS
BRITTANY ADAMES
Today I spoke to God in metaphors--
tongue twisting haltingly and
sliced ribs turned to church pew,
car's honk rendered a sermon.
I wonder if He thinks
my prayer is akin to expired milk.
I bathe myself in canned mandarins,
or maybe the cluster of flax seeds
poured into Sunday's smoothie.
Once, when I was six, I asked
God if He crushed cans of beer
between His milked teeth
or if He found scripture
in my father's grease-slicked arms.
I hold mother's hand and
thumb the space between freckle
and knuckle like a homily
psalm turned to
ligament turned to
organ turned to
grammar.
Often, I mouth
through tummy-swollen sins
and corrode my gums,
finding refuge in
small-scale wounds.
Today I ask God why He
wrung hair ties around my throat.
Why He planted the boy's paper flesh
between my berry-ripe lips
and sculpted verse
out of crucified language.
He is silent.
I try to douse mother's freckles
into the boy's eyes
to see if it would stifle the throb
of skin against spear.
His gaze cracks in cacao pods,
teeth bruising sheet
until nothing but lament remains.
He grasps a wire-meshed strainer
to separate infused syrups
from permission.
I ask God if He is there
but my lips do not move.
The boy drips
light amber honey like sin.
I am silent.
tongue twisting haltingly and
sliced ribs turned to church pew,
car's honk rendered a sermon.
I wonder if He thinks
my prayer is akin to expired milk.
I bathe myself in canned mandarins,
or maybe the cluster of flax seeds
poured into Sunday's smoothie.
Once, when I was six, I asked
God if He crushed cans of beer
between His milked teeth
or if He found scripture
in my father's grease-slicked arms.
I hold mother's hand and
thumb the space between freckle
and knuckle like a homily
psalm turned to
ligament turned to
organ turned to
grammar.
Often, I mouth
through tummy-swollen sins
and corrode my gums,
finding refuge in
small-scale wounds.
Today I ask God why He
wrung hair ties around my throat.
Why He planted the boy's paper flesh
between my berry-ripe lips
and sculpted verse
out of crucified language.
He is silent.
I try to douse mother's freckles
into the boy's eyes
to see if it would stifle the throb
of skin against spear.
His gaze cracks in cacao pods,
teeth bruising sheet
until nothing but lament remains.
He grasps a wire-meshed strainer
to separate infused syrups
from permission.
I ask God if He is there
but my lips do not move.
The boy drips
light amber honey like sin.
I am silent.
BRITTANY ADAMES is an eighteen-year-old Dominican-American writer. Her work has been previously published in Affinity Magazine, CALAMITY Magazine, Mental Movement Magazine, Women’s Republic, The NG Magazine, Bombus Press, Rumble Fish Quarterly, and is forthcoming in For the Sonorous and a Not My President anthology published by Thoughtcrime Press. She currently serves as the poetry editor and mentor for Ascend Magazine and creative writing editor for GLUE Magazine. She has been regionally and nationally recognized by the Scholastic Writing Awards and is an alumna of Susquehanna University's Advanced Writers Workshop and Kenyon College's Writers Workshop. Her work, predominantly prose and poetry, primarily centers around social and cultural facets that embody and mold the elements of her identity. She seeks inspiration from her native tongue and brown skin.