Well with my hands folded I’m
Unable to look up
Each slimy black stone stammering to the top
A meadow, a tree, a smudge of a house
Pessismism and optimism passed down according to pamphlets
I wonder where it lives in our bodies and how much its able to turn
When I cry, I try to whisper in my head
it's yours but can only think to do it
My brother my dad my boyfriend when I think of he
It's more of a wheel
Less of a flood and more of a stone
Upright and grinding out sparks like industry
All of this energy in us for what?
//Alexandra Schwartz has her bachelor's degree in creative writing and anthropology. She looks forward to one day being a teacher and every day learning to love more.