These three poems by V.S. Ramstack aim to highlight the idiosyncrasies of love and addiction that often define the plight of being a human….
by: V.S. Ramstack
september sky i see your bright body in the trees, the leaves that kiss my windowsill in the morning i’ve woken with the expectation that life will grab me by the wrists only to fling me into a salted abyss and there is no remedy for such a sweet, consistent fear a dying bird flickering quietly across the pavement, its small burst of green feathers a testament to what still breathes and i want to be like that breath, like that with you, tender in all our mistakes your hands aglow, big moons & silver rings, are reaching for mine and you are laughing, you are dancing along the shoreline, and it is in this way we manage to save each other
everything about the color yellow i think of jaundice swirling at the bottom of my foot. i could take it down with a left hook or succumb slowly with shin splints. there’s a halogen bulb in my throat, bile rising, to the lightest level of irony if i tell you about cages & canaries & all that sings, remember there’s still a bathtub of piss waiting at the end. let it run down the leg, soak through the socks, kindred spirit in the corner whispering in sunflower tongue hope? what of it – i have three mild american spirits left and they treat me alright. i steer these handlebars with my knees, vintage banana bicycle seat, lemon pepper thrown over my shoulder, intrepid kiss
loose stitch i clenched my teeth last night so hard i could feel you crawling out of my molars and down my arm as a poem the way alice walker once described she said, please: notice ducks and i must admit i haven’t done this yet pull my legs up pretzel-like on the couch and count the myriad ways to be unfinished i’m not saying it’s fun – i’m saying i still bury the mandible inward but i like to imagine there’s a human in me that moves outward and knows i’m in love with the way we mourn in moon, something like a baptism not the water speaking for the face, nor the legs aching to be continents, but rather the dirt infested with soil mites – because it was a gift and the bow was so beautiful
V. S. Ramstack is a Pisces, a selective extrovert, and an avid crier. Besides poetry, she enjoys cats, flowers, and checking out too many books at the library. She received her MFA from Columbia College Chicago. Previous work can be found in Curator Magazine, Posit, Anti-Heroin Chic, and elsewhere.