Katelyn Devine

Poem For Moving Out Of A Freshman Dorm

There was a time in November that I spilt candle wax.
Candles and incense were strictly banned.
Wine and toasters were strictly banned too.
I was alone, and left it. It hardened.

Now, in June,
I lift it so effortlessly, cooperatively,
as if it was never there.
It is red, the scent of a harvest, or some
other fall relic.
So I scrape it off the tile floor.
When someone new walks around here,
it will be as if it was never here,
or I was never was here,
felt here, thought here, cried here,
and looked around here;
changed my mind and the people in my bed here.
But we never really were here,
compared to the wax on the floor.
It stayed all the time here.
It flickered and died here.
Just as we flickered and lived
and found it here.
Our first time, being spilt on the floor,
being dried up.
Some of us got scraped,
effortlessly, cooperatively,
in time to flicker somewhere else.

The Month of March

Dear sun tinted, orange, driftwood fence,
I’m spending my time on living.

The scarcity of my pockets,
Sound like that trip I took last week.
The weight of an impulse,
Light, like the colors of a washed out photograph
Or a thin white shirt, bleached times over.

An angle of light, the reflection of a smile,
An afternoon ride,
Not having it all together in March,
Sipping, sipping away.
I drink my American coffee and I wake up fine.

It’ll be such a great collection, tomorrow’s past
It’ll be such a grand anthology.

Days, nights, trips between sanity attacks,
When I call upon the mirrors of the soul
To be truthful, and understanding,
But that might cost.

It is just two dollars, steaming with success,
And the sigh of my warming throat.

Placed Gently in Fields

You are a thousand different souls,
Crafted finely by many hands.
I’m recalling all the ghosts you used to be.

Placed gently in fields,
Asleep in the dirt,
Bare legs ignite,
Air snaps with heat,
Singing like bees,
Circling beyond grace.
These are the times
that felt like you.

The pale walls of your home,
taught me everything I need to know
about knowing.

The pale walls of your home,
frame your crafty soul.
I’m recalling all the ghosts.