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Combining Blackouts

by Olivia Dodge about a month ago in surreal poetry
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5/15/22

I’ve spoken of your hands pulling me beneath tides and clouds in every season for my palms are ready to burst. I wonder if the sun would watch the second my spine is ashes. October happens every fall but never felt so angry. My anger poured into a person. Feeling is the closest thing to home. It is not sunny enough. My vices did not turn to minutes. I hope life in the eruption did not burn with your fingertips and my bones— they would exist for me. My feet flinch on his skin. Nothing could feel the same. I let a page flip to my fingers. This page was in my dreams— my mind’s realm. He should evaporate from the north. At 30,000 feet my anger felt distant. I beg of you and the seasons which drowned me. Sitting next to me I felt longing. Pieces spewing upon my palms for I should matter. Wrapped in warmth— the moment is enough. He will know his inspiration may have been brewing like bees and crushed leaves over the years— never in October.

— ODH

surreal poetry

About the author

Olivia Dodge

20 | Chicago

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