Hums, Murmurs
&
OVERGROWTH and dead leaves
ASHLEY GILLAND
Hums, Murmurs
The moths had burrowed tiny cracks in my billowing curtains that painted moon ghosts on my walls that crept slowly toward me each night, daring me to fall asleep. They were shaped like a hum and wavered a smeared lens, lonely and speculative. I pulled out my list of baby names and started assigning childhoods. The ghost that anchored flight above the lava lamp I named Europa after a moon off the coast of Jupiter. She was the furthest away.
I approached avant-garde as I knighted Penumbra and Murmur and Static and Chime after those shaped like itches on my arm and thoughts that slipped through and through without care, superfluous white smudges.
I was always mindful to name the closest ghost after myself, so my underling and heiress would reach me first on the sleepless nights. Despite amorphous androgyny, she let me pretend identity is transcendent and safe. She is the one who will visit regardless of needle and thread.
Hums, Murmurs
The moths had burrowed tiny cracks in my billowing curtains that painted moon ghosts on my walls that crept slowly toward me each night, daring me to fall asleep. They were shaped like a hum and wavered a smeared lens, lonely and speculative. I pulled out my list of baby names and started assigning childhoods. The ghost that anchored flight above the lava lamp I named Europa after a moon off the coast of Jupiter. She was the furthest away.
I approached avant-garde as I knighted Penumbra and Murmur and Static and Chime after those shaped like itches on my arm and thoughts that slipped through and through without care, superfluous white smudges.
I was always mindful to name the closest ghost after myself, so my underling and heiress would reach me first on the sleepless nights. Despite amorphous androgyny, she let me pretend identity is transcendent and safe. She is the one who will visit regardless of needle and thread.
Overgrowth and Dead Leaves
My dead husband sprouted an olive tree six feet above his corpse. I imagine the roots cradle his skeleton in a hammock as he drains light through veins of the leaves. In constant prayer to help me reach him, night and day I dressed the tree with bird feeders and as much life as death allows.
At night, his vines bind my body still, a parasite of spirit, a grounded chokehold to keep me from the sweet dream perils of a widow’s peak. The overgrowth creeps out of my sleeve and stretches past my fingers, clasping my hand into a gentle fist in resolution with a biblical elegance on the brink of religion.
My dead husband sprouted an olive tree six feet above his corpse. I imagine the roots cradle his skeleton in a hammock as he drains light through veins of the leaves. In constant prayer to help me reach him, night and day I dressed the tree with bird feeders and as much life as death allows.
At night, his vines bind my body still, a parasite of spirit, a grounded chokehold to keep me from the sweet dream perils of a widow’s peak. The overgrowth creeps out of my sleeve and stretches past my fingers, clasping my hand into a gentle fist in resolution with a biblical elegance on the brink of religion.
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ASHLEY GILLAND is a writer, musician, and multimedia artist from Missouri. Her work is published in Dishsoap Quarterly, Haven Speculative, Patchwork Lit Mag, and The Waxed Lemon, among others. When not writing poetry and philosophical flash fiction, she also loves composing music and embroidering mixed media art projects. Find her music on Spotify and Bandcamp, her art on Instagram and Etsy (@pocketsnailart), and her tweets at @earlgreysnail.
/// To be kaleidoscoped, I can only imagine, is to be immersed in shifting colors and perspectives, surrounded by yourself, and to know yourself from every angle. |