The Night
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The night never starts when beds are bare.
the unfilled, mottled indentations of pillowtops
Smelling resplendent with shampoo and honeysuckle,
peppered with mascara scars, bleaching tattered
holes in the shiny fabric. My bedside that morning,
the white of my tank top stained coke and vodka.
I swallowed bile. The night won’t ever start if the bed
remains bare. Vacancy is appealing; vacancy is painless.
And when you have become something raw and aching,
maybe infinite sinews complex against the comforter.
Repetitive motions, frontal lobes of memory—
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Poetry by Kathleen Braine
the unfilled, mottled indentations of pillowtops
Smelling resplendent with shampoo and honeysuckle,
peppered with mascara scars, bleaching tattered
holes in the shiny fabric. My bedside that morning,
the white of my tank top stained coke and vodka.
I swallowed bile. The night won’t ever start if the bed
remains bare. Vacancy is appealing; vacancy is painless.
And when you have become something raw and aching,
maybe infinite sinews complex against the comforter.
Repetitive motions, frontal lobes of memory—
You never awake to blood underneath your fingernails.
Kathleen Braine is a Brown University senior from Columbus, Ohio. She loves Jaime Saenz and Walt Whitman, and would probably marry Junot Diaz if he asked her to. He favorite activities include playing card games, going on feminist rants, and perfecting pasta recipes. She currently works for NOW-NYC and writes for TheReviewReview.net. Braine had numerous plays produced at Brown University, and received honors in literary arts for her playwriting thesis, The Only Truth That Sticks, dealing with the aftermath of sexual assault.
Volume 1, Issue 4 Back to top
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