We Are Most Ourselves When We Are in Transit

by Aurora Bones

There she goes across the country,

turning her boyfriends into vegetarians

& then breaking up with them.

There she goes,

peeling paper off orange crayons,

weaving wilted violets in her hair.

Vomiting quietly into her wineglass.

The anti-glamour of her sadness

still unfastens me.

On the train I sip cherry blossom tea

& press forget-me-nots

into the pages of a dictionary

while trees go by outside

the window at just the right speed.

I am still trying to decide

if her eyes are mostly green with blue flecks

or mostly blue with green.

I remember which direction

to put my sweater on

by reminiscing which shoulder

her fingers traced

through its torn sleeve.

It takes a lot of energy not to love someone.

To stand for years with arms outstretched,

palms facing away, bracing against

her tangle of veins and glitter.

Her mouth a keyhole.

Eyes a burning building burning.

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Aurora Bones is eternally curious about the relationship between the internal and external worlds. Her manuscript, Almost Untethered and Without Weight, was recently a finalist in the National Poetry Series. Her work has been published in online and print publications such as Allium, Another Chicago Magazine, and Anti-Heroin Chic. She earned an MFA from Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado, and currently teaches English at a University in Illinois. She also enjoys planting sunflowers, and often spends her evenings catching fireflies and then letting them go again.