The Edge – Emily Kepulis

The flower picked
.                       is now shriveled dry
around my ear. I leave it there
because it reminds me of

waking up this morning on a railing,
of the telephone pole that cut

the sky in two. It lit up the man
with four paper bags,

one with a slight rip,
walking up stairs like some things

are worth trying. Like why not? Like
could go two ways. Like effort is submissive
to what’s already happening or what’s already

happening next. Like the part of something
farthest away from its own

center. If the groceries
.  remain: tuna dead

and can inanimate, the stairs and
dirt stacked shiftless, if the man

is steady, and did buy a lime, there’s also a chance
he’ll make it. To shove a wedge

in a Pacifico. To continue happening

until the bottom of a bottle holds
only carbonated pulp,
.                       until all’s unlit
and skin is fruitless.

 
 
 
Emily Kepulis is a visual artist currently living in Portland, Oregon. She graduated from Portland State University in 2015 and one day dreams of owning her own goose.
 
 

Categories: Poetry