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Drive Down Redondo

by Galilee Marcos

I stand up, hair in the wind. Your convertible is

an old piece of junk, but it still

converts. You’re singing Woody Guthrie,

we’re the folk of the modern world.

The sunset is beautiful, but

you’re there so it’s not winning any pageants.

 

Pull over. Pull the top up. Kiss

my top lip and I’ll bite the bottom.

 

Switch off. Now we’re both in the wind.

You make it look natural. I’m scared 

of what that means. We’re speeding

down an unknown road, my eyes wander off

toward you. The road leads 

to your street. Oh good, we’re not lost, but 

this wasn’t the destination either.

Come on, I know a spot. The wind

creates a tunnel, shielding us from

prying eyes. Driving down the same drive,

shrouded now in shadows

 

Pull over. Keep the top down. Kiss

my top lip and I’ll bite the bottom.

Fireside Excuses

by Galilee Marcos

The fireplace’s warmth is warmer 

than the sun. Warmth

compared to heat.

The grocery store trip

I had with you to buy wood,

even though it’s an electric fireplace.

 

I just wanted an excuse. Under the piles

of blankets, I don’t know

whether I’m holding your hand

or my own.

We decide to watch a movie rather than

silence or our spilling thoughts.

We consider horror, but we

 

see that they’re just an excuse

of a movie. Modern romcoms are too.

Scroll and watch

a second of hundreds of stories

that could’ve been ours.

 

How about an action flick where the explosions

cover up the confusion 

they might’ve created. 

Or the movie you watched when

 

you were fifteen

that shaped your teenage years.

You haven’t thought about it in years, but

you don’t think about rocks upstream.

The river flows anyway, the fire’s

flames are still orange.

 

Until it goes out. We look

at each other and laugh. I’d watch

Every bad comedy if it was 

Your chuckles on the track.

Maybe it’s the wood, we laugh some more.

I go to get another blanket, but you say to

just get closer. I’m out of excuses,

I know which line I’m crossing. We can’t decide

which scene to replay

in our heads. Save it for when

you fall asleep. Planet Earth plays,

we see the river, how it flows.

Stages of a Metaphor

by Galilee Marcos

I: Conception — I read a word in the paper,

it gave me a picture. I saw something and

made it to be something else. Came home to find my

chandelier fell, the shards put sparkles

on the ceiling. I put a name to the scene.

It spoke its first words.

 

II — Take it into my hands, a tall

wedge of clay. It’s larger than life, but I’ll

rip some off, dig my thumbs in to

make eyes. Throw it at the wal,l

see if it sticks. Throw it and see if it shatters.

The phrase has rough edges. Syntax juts out,

making the lip mouth different words.

Sweep the fragments of unfired clay into a

bucket. Throw it on a wheel, try

a vase instead of a bust.

 

III: Growth — The vase grows legs. Between

line breaks and similes, there’s a pulse.

Language lives in the curls 

of the tongue. Cut its words,

like a gecko's tail, it’ll grow back,

similar but different.

Standing on its own, the ideas

I feed my work come out as

its own breath. My child,

my child, I kiss it for the last time.

IV: Reproduction — Metaphors line up

next to the other prose. All on display, I

take a photo before the rest of

the world can.

The shattered glass has been cleaned

now, replaced by a new, brighter light.

Entropy increases, I made less sense

of something with

no sense at all.

I let it go, hoping it’ll change shape. Live 

again as a vase, or a bust, or a picture.

As a seed in someone’s mind, whispering

words to an idea.

Poet Statement:

Galilee Marcos is an aspiring poet who writes about love and art. When she’s not writing poetry, she’s on stage rehearsing for the next Decatur Theater production.

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