CIRCLES, Izaac Bacik

by Izaac Bacik

You need to know:

Writing this poem was 60% pacing.
My method also included 20% squeezing hand sanitizer into
the crevices between my fingers and keyboard keys,
10% tugging at my clothes and 10% worrying
that everything I write is going to be taken at face value.

These words are not my face.

I read somewhere that poetry has body and soul,
That poetry conveys life and death like
a memory or a photograph or the laughter of a
loved one—but my poetry doesn’t smile.
You cannot take a picture like the ones in my head.
I tread steady circles around coffee tables and
stairwells and the downstairs of my parent’s house
and I would circle the world if I wasn’t afraid that
opening the front door might wake somebody up.

This poem isn’t meant to wake anybody up.
This poem is room temperature water with a
peanut butter sandwich. This poem is checking the
windows with each circle around the main floor.
This poem is setting off firecrackers in the wake of
a fireworks show.
This poem is another circle because I’m always collecting more.
If I walk enough circles I’ll catch up to my house,
and eventually out-pace all the secrets that got swept beneath the oven.
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About barkingsycamores 183 Articles
Barking Sycamores is a literary journal entirely edited and operated by queer neurodivergent people of color. We publish poetry, artwork, short fiction (beginning with Issue 3), creative nonfiction (beginning with Issue 8), and hybrid genre work (beginning with Issue 9) by emerging and established neurodivergent writers as well as essays on neurodiversity and literature and book reviews (beginning with Issue 10).

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