a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Taylor Emily Copeland

In case you were wondering

It's like the speeding car
that hits at forty miles per hour
and sends you through the air
crashing into the windshield,
up and over, landing face first
into the asphalt.

It is the low tone of your voice
echoing like wooden heels down
an empty hallway filled with
crappy tile floors and flickering
florescent lighting.
Repeats over and over
leaves me bitter and broken
against the river's chill.

It is mostly how I don't hate you.

It is a conclusion drawn long ago,
over caffeine kisses and long sleeves
drawn to protect, pulled to not expose
what was left on a table, across a bridge.

It is the silence in my inbox,
the inevitable letdown.
 

  

Afternoon, rebuffed

You left on
your t-shirt, your

boxers, your guilt,
your indecision,

and sat like a sullen fruit
on the edge of my bed, painted

into the backdrop of a summer
afternoon, dreary, with your mouth

turned down, with your eyes
focused out the window.

 

Reflections on missing things

How can a girl survive a heart attack
and not have a heightened sense of
everything? The smell of evening is
a thick cloud of burnt wood.
Every light bulb pierces the cornea,
every taste bud explodes. How can
a girl with no feet, one leg and
two missing hands wake up in the
morning and eat her breakfast? Brush
her teeth, use eyeliner, get off?
How can a girl that hangs herself in
her closet feel the weight's release?

 

Taylor Emily Copeland is a poet from Eastern Pennsylvania. Her poems have recently appeared in Hobo Camp Review, Thick With Conviction, Chantarelle's Notebook, Drown In My Own Fears and The Active Voice. In 2010, she was nominated twice for Best of the Net and also was nominated for Best of the Web. She loves the band Paramore, reads obsessively, likes pink things, drinks too much coffee, drives aimlessly and falls in love too easily. She is unashamed of all of it.

Copyright 2014  Chantarelle's Notebook