Trisha Katz

Our Book's Close

What are you every day? A voice is hollow. A picture too thin to understand. Hurricanes couldn’t blow away comedy central at 3 AM last winter. Tornadoes couldn’t pick up the tire tracks we carved into the grass. But time has changed. Days rise up like magma and flow down, cementing laughter into misshapen stone. Don’t offer me adjectives; an axe couldn’t do the job. I can’t know your night will be good when I don’t know your night. “Sweet dreams.” An empty promise.  Your feet grow up from the ground and push me beneath it. Stacking inches of friends and play-off games upon each other until your sky encrypts them into a code that can only ever be a script. You can’t ignore something that isn’t there. You can’t grasp it either. A sister could be on the other side of the rope you’re holding. Or the train could cut right through it. Don’t miss me; you can only miss the past. 14 years, that’s all. Maybe a chapter if I’m lucky. Maybe.


Autumn's Lyrics Lost


i. Sky

Winds want melodies.
No harmonies to hum,
Not yet.
Towers splice autumn’s
          light.

 

ii. Farrier

No room for musk
with all this business.
Can’t hear your grunts.
Not enough sidewalk
for those overalls.

 

iii. Cold Now

Snow was warm
on top of manes.
Soft auburn absorbed breath.
Shivers rebound off cement.
Where else to go?

 

iv. Orange flight

The sun’s brushstrokes paint
Hills upon my eyes of gold.
Hands melt onto the auburn,
Bound into the orange.
          gallop.

 

v. Not built in 1966

Eyes stop at 18 stories.
Lost among the fading blue.
Boomeranged among alleys
That whisper
          opportunity.
                       

vi. Instructions

Specks of gold among the                
dark. Endless outside my                                 
window. Unnamed.
Where are the possibilities                                                               
between the billboards?

 

vii. Rhythm

A canter synchronized
our worlds. Lightly rising
like a feather.
Trains are too blind for
that world. We shuffle.

 

viii. Apple sound
 
A sweetness shared
From beauty’s vine. The
gloss of water drips.
Where has that season gone
          that crisp.


Trisha Katz is a first-year student in Sargent College of Health & Rehabilitation Sciences at Boston University. Originally from Rhode Island, Trisha has been an avid reader and writer of poetry since elementary school; however, until now, her work has only appeared on Internet forums under obscure, egocentric usernames. When she isn’t writing, Trisha can most likely be found wandering the streets of Boston, trying extremely hard to not appear lost.