Carly Sachs

 

 

The Possible Movement

 

The possible movement was what they strove to create.
A movement that would change the entire world.
They whispered it into each other's ears at night,
convincing themselves that it was possible.
How hard is possible?
Everyone conceives it at one point or another.
He stood behind her as she looked out at the clock
and put his hands on her shoulders.
Her palms on the window, the condensation
of a winter night. There was no snow on the ground.
It was in fact balmy, not right for December at all.
Yet there it was melting across the glass, tiny beads.

 

 

 

 

The art student

 

He comes from the place in which her family first settled when they came from blank so in this sense they have a history. This serves as good enough explanation for the way they felt the metal balls inside their stomachs drop when they met each other. It seems likely enough that fate would wield the sugar container empty and that he would be descending from the stairs just at that moment so she could ask him, "do you know where there is more sugar?"

They did not have sex at the time she was writing this. Of course, he was no Rick Shimmel. His name was Billy. When she thinks of him she thinks of two things. First that song that goes "Billy don't be a hero" and then Billy the Kidd. Both seem fitting descriptions of him.

All things lead to other things just as all thoughts lead to other thoughts and everything in a way leads back to sex, which is to say at some point they will conjugally engage if not physically but mentally, spiritually, artistically which is an essential tenant of the possible movement.

 

 

Synaesthesia

 

it moves slowly at first, then

there had been white linen and music

she felt herself falling

it was not enough that it had been painted

that he had wanted to give her something, a sign

she had always tried and let it slip away

from her

that if he looked long enough, he could move the paint with his eyes

that he had set the table with crystal, but could not bring

himself to fill the glasses

like the melting of a peppermint on the

tongue

he willed them to wheels, danced breath into that which was still

that there was something about her that held and refracted

light

the memory of something sweet

that you could make a room a canvas

that he could reach out to touch her arm

she thought of the moments of her life, how

perfectly wrapped like little candies, like

sugary gems

that color could not be still

that there would be only emptiness

she saw herself as a girl and realized she

was still there looking over the lip of the

dish                    

he thought of ballet

how it was not the dancers' bodies, but it was the colored

tulle and gauze that moved them

that when the words ran out there would be

this

that the fabric shimmered and spun absent of flesh

he thought of his body,

how you have to be quiet when holding

something on your tongue

all the movements that were happening

every second

that if you name it, it will disappear

the way his cells had looked under a microscope

purple membranes vacuous blue holes

she did not know how to go about telling

him

that he could feel them moving, small colored ants crawling inside him

that he had wanted to tell her

she knew there would be tears, soft salty

diamonds, so she could remember what

sadness tasted like