Passenger of Time on the Maple Leaf Line
by Sofia Bagdade
This seat is blue as memory,
blue as gaps of sky that stretch the clouds as tender thighs
pressed against the vinyl as the bass pulses the room,
limp figures swaying mildly
in sheets of stale perfume
Remembering leaks like smeared canals and your chipped tooth
flattened
by sunrays,
bitten fingers stroke the chords of last October’s embrace—
this crisp inhale as the train streaks by,
iced with old reflections, lulled by sideways lies
faces glued to windows
faces fogged by missed calls waiting,
faces we collect in leather suitcases and stow above our heads:
paper mache piles of the past,
my face warped by the bottom of the glass
American Sentences: Late August in Red
by Sofia Bagdade
Ghosts of water haunt my green sweater, thick rain stains blur your limp figure.
Yesterday bites at our bones, firework breath shatters wet July sky.
That night was mosquito bites crackling as seagulls slapped the navy sea.
Ash wings all white with shore foam, how does salt taste when you fall from the sky?
The fall from grace, doves haunt dim alleyways and chase at shadows pale, gray.
Autumn is empty cups stained with wine dregs—red teeth, coated memory.