The Seventeen Seconds of Odette
Hidden in Sight
Resentment as a Kind of Relief
Over the Kanawha
Culled from the Flock
The Beauty in Fracturing
I’m half-submerged in waking, as my body
bends the shadows on the floor. These eyes settle
below me—they skim the silhouettes that I attempt
to trace. Streetlights flicker through the window,
they mirror how my impulses drip,
resplendent from fingertips and ribs
unfurled. Those fervent threads cling to me:
and pool at my feet.
To catch a drop is to watch it
shatter in my palm.
My hands hang still with sticky purpose—
the heat of it presses
ripples into bloom.
The currents swell and pull me
they demand that I speak their language.
I ask for their assurances.
They send me back to shore.
About The Author
Ayla Maisey is a freshman at Columbia College Chicago majoring in creative nonfiction. Her other pursuits include wandering through foreign countries, amateur photography and writing poetry. You can often find her curled up with over-sweetened tea and her two cats, but she is probably in her house at that point, so please do not do that. She has never listened to Take Care, but she promises that she will when she finishes listening to An Awesome Wave.