Ellie White
Duster
No one’s laughing anymore. Your tree house
is a scaffold, your sword an old windshield wiper.
The ships down in the harbor carry codfish.
You knew where we were going, second star
to the right and straight on till morning.
Where is morning?
We stare at the sky until our eyes collapse,
tie bandanas around our headaches
so the department store suits with their escalator vision
can’t see the black holes in our faces.
Pirates are nervous, haven’t been the same
since treasure became intangible.
There is no stopping a thief of names, no capture
for a crook of codes. They see us
wandering the jittery streets. We are spray paint
seeping through subway walls. They get scared
when we look too hungry. Suspect we might
be dusting. Where is morning?
A boy with dad’s shoulders crushed our tent
last week. His bones ripped the rain tarp. His mouth
was a glittering cave. We made it
quick. Traded the fillings for yesterday’s blue
plate special before the van even showed up
to take the body. The dust is getting harder
to turn down. Just a pinch. No more rats
chewing our bloodless fingertips in the dark,
stealing our time as we twitch into
delirium. Where is morning? Just a sprinkle.
We could fly again. Never mind the blood
on the bus windows. This time,
we wouldn’t run out of dreams.
Ellie White has been trying to teach people how to hallucinate since 1986. In 2012, she graduated from The Ohio State University with a Bachelor’s in English, and she is currently an MFA candidate at Old Dominion University. Ellie has competed in the College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational, the Rustbelt Regional Poetry Slam, the Individual World Poetry Slam, and the Women of the World Poetry Slam.
Duster
No one’s laughing anymore. Your tree house
is a scaffold, your sword an old windshield wiper.
The ships down in the harbor carry codfish.
You knew where we were going, second star
to the right and straight on till morning.
Where is morning?
We stare at the sky until our eyes collapse,
tie bandanas around our headaches
so the department store suits with their escalator vision
can’t see the black holes in our faces.
Pirates are nervous, haven’t been the same
since treasure became intangible.
There is no stopping a thief of names, no capture
for a crook of codes. They see us
wandering the jittery streets. We are spray paint
seeping through subway walls. They get scared
when we look too hungry. Suspect we might
be dusting. Where is morning?
A boy with dad’s shoulders crushed our tent
last week. His bones ripped the rain tarp. His mouth
was a glittering cave. We made it
quick. Traded the fillings for yesterday’s blue
plate special before the van even showed up
to take the body. The dust is getting harder
to turn down. Just a pinch. No more rats
chewing our bloodless fingertips in the dark,
stealing our time as we twitch into
delirium. Where is morning? Just a sprinkle.
We could fly again. Never mind the blood
on the bus windows. This time,
we wouldn’t run out of dreams.
Ellie White has been trying to teach people how to hallucinate since 1986. In 2012, she graduated from The Ohio State University with a Bachelor’s in English, and she is currently an MFA candidate at Old Dominion University. Ellie has competed in the College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational, the Rustbelt Regional Poetry Slam, the Individual World Poetry Slam, and the Women of the World Poetry Slam.
