IVORKS

soot and sod

Sonam Kaloti
Arts Editor

 

They do not echo on the sod and soot;

your expensive sneakers, longboard with red
features. For tonight, our trot lacks your heads;
single from a trio, bobbing, barefoot

alone in my home. Hear voices airborne;

I know from where. I'm circled by four walls
with tall shadows there, and out on the lawn.
Their tongues don't match my friends’ tongues. Forlorn,
they speak to me simultaneously,

deadly and dreary. Then they spill their plans.
“What party?" | ask, still poised on tiptoes,
“Not invited,” clearly. Enviously

fall and crash after I waver in stance

fell on my soles. My friends are my foes.

 

 

Illustration by Morgan Hannah