First
the earth shivers,
molten blood pumps
through dirt veins,
thrusts
against every surface,
quickening,
thrashing
through walls, scraping
at balance and gravity
and you are excited.

Second
the world stills.
The seagulls abandon
the clouds for the hard
rush of distance.
Silence perches
on shoulders, pierces
the flesh with a sharp ring,
drapes heavy against your neck,
bows you over,

and the sky is split.
Above it is light eggshells,
spotted with white watchers
and flaxen beams,
but below
cobalt rises, cracked
with sunburned teal,
creeps into the brightness,
brings together
calm and threat.

Third
you are drowning.
Bodies cling to your limbs,
mouths wide and black.
Waves of stress pull matted
hair from your scalp,
peel the skin down from your eyes,
leave behind dark pits.
Pressured, bones splinter,
are buried in thick
denial

and you are lost.

Mikayla Davis is an undergraduate from Spokane, Washington. She has a BA in English from Eastern Washington University as well as several two-year degrees from Spokane Falls Community College. She is the editor for The Wire Harp and has poems published in Railtown Almanac, Northwest Boulevard, Gold Dust, and CandleLit.