“Dove collides into window, leaving a white imprint of its body, a crime scene outline saying ‘Take this, the dust of me. Remember the way my body was round and would not move through glass.’” - Franny Choi
imagine / moving / through life / without leaving / myself behind / imagine / i see / it coming / invisible boundary / that shuts / between us / imagine / i didn’t / hit it / again / and again / each contact point / a new image / of me / taking me / to make another / is this / my ghost / feathery / temporary / in the way / of me / and the other side / walk across the patio / count each one / you see / i’m the only one / in love / i failed / to move/through glass / to cross / the space / between us / dove hits glass / olive branch drops / exact same time / falling / out of sync / with each thud / olive branch falls / dove is / only one / who hears / anything / transparent / shows the parts / i hide / round / misshapen / always white / always / a reflection / of myself / always / a reminder / of the home / in you / i lost / each moment / a way / to give / you / my last breath / all i wanted / was you / to remember / me / i was alive / or / tried to be / or / destroyed myself / to show / i was / here / take this, the dust of me / remember / i loved you / outside / of myself / i cannot move / through glass / i cannot / pretend / to see / something i can’t / but / i never know / it is there / perhaps / if i try / a different way / feet first / instead of / full body / stopping instead of / breaking / the wall / with my / tiny chest / am i still / a sign / of peace / if you see / remnants / of me? //
FEBRUARY SPIKENER is a Black femme poet from Detroit currently residing in Massachusetts. Her work appears in The Wellesley Review, Paper Trains Literary Journal, and So to Speak: feminist journal of language and art. Ever inspired by their loved ones, their poems center healing and reflection, as well as what it means to love and be loved. February believes that love is and has always been the answer and that the mastery of love is a form of survival.