Alex Stolis
Train whistle. Gravel dust kicked up by a speeding car. An unanswered phone.
Neighbors whisper in Ojibwe. It’s not what it soundslikesmellsliketasteslike,
it’s what it feels like:
a pop-top slicing a thumb open.
ice cold water on bare feet.
sharp slap of flesh against flesh.
In this land there are no continents, one great lake, and one raging river,
every secret buried under water. Our apartment has three rooms:
kitchen/living room, bedroom, bathroom. Gas hisses from the unlit stove.
I count back from ten. Nine, eight, seven, the TV is turned off,
smoke curls from an ashtray. Footfalls on the stairs get closer,
dissembling pieces of the day.
The nape of my neck burns, four, three, two; the door opens.
A click and the gas is off. A sigh and the ashtray empties
into darkness. At zero
I pull a metal splinter from my palm,
listen to the needlebumpgroove, close
my eyes, pretend there’s no place like home.
I am driftwood:
a recklessness so quiet everyone mistakes
me for the wind.
About the author
Alex Stolis has published poems in numerous journals. In 2024, he published three chapbooks: Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife from Louisiana Literature Press, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, from Bottlecap Press. He lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.