Picture & Poem

Picture by Lindsay. Poem by Melissa.

New project

Hello! We’ve not abandoned this blog. We look forward to the day soon where will we present a new picture and poem once again. 

Until that day, however, we have a new project to unveil: Elle + Emme. It’s the start of what some people call a web series and we just call making short weird videos for fun and mental, artistic exercise. 

Today we bring you moving picture & sung poem. 

Your socks are by the bed you aren’t in—
the moon shines down next to me,
takes your shape.

I write this while falling asleep,
illuminated by the fake, white-blue light of my phone
I write spoon and don’t know why.

If you were here perhaps you’d tell me

like when you say
I had a half dream 
and look up and laugh
when I remind you later. 

Your socks are by the bed you aren’t in—

the moon shines down next to me,

takes your shape.

I write this while falling asleep,

illuminated by the fake, white-blue light of my phone

I write spoon and don’t know why.

If you were here perhaps you’d tell me

like when you say

I had a half dream

and look up and laugh

when I remind you later. 

After dinner I take a fork and poke out
constellations in a bed sheet,
cover our overhead light with
the dark blue cloth and turn on the fan:
a hovering layer of artificial stars. 

After dinner I take a fork and poke out

constellations in a bed sheet,

cover our overhead light with

the dark blue cloth and turn on the fan:

a hovering layer of artificial stars. 

And maybe it was the time  of year  the body-shocking brain-clouding  heat that made me turn  inward and out of the sun out of sight
In bed I grabbed an empty water glass from my nightstand held the bottom up to my eye
I heard the creaking of the stairs she appeared and walked toward me every strand of hair each freckle closer to complete maximum acuity

And maybe it was the time
of year
the body-shocking brain-clouding
heat that made me turn
inward and out
of the sun out of sight

In bed I grabbed an empty
water glass from my nightstand held
the bottom up to my eye

I heard the creaking of the stairs
she appeared
and walked toward me
every strand of hair
each freckle
closer to complete maximum acuity

Like a solo flag in a field I will stand up and still,
proclaim my devotion to the country that is you:
that I pledge my allegiance to. 

Like a solo flag in a field I will stand up and still,

proclaim my devotion to the country that is you:

that I pledge my allegiance to. 

It could be remembered as the year I killed the ivy: those twisting, thin vines wrapped around the trellis. In a fit of aesthetics I turned the living into dead, brown, shriveled things. I put down my tools. I sat inside, avoided the windows, covered my eyes with my palms when nearing the garden, when the sun led me outside. I am no mother. 

It could be remembered as the year I killed the ivy: those twisting, thin vines wrapped around the trellis. In a fit of aesthetics I turned the living into dead, brown, shriveled things. I put down my tools. I sat inside, avoided the windows, covered my eyes with my palms when nearing the garden, when the sun led me outside. I am no mother. 

A blade of grass touches her face:
a tiny hand through the fence
reaching out.
The sun turns yellow, brighter, white.

Show and tell me what you know.

A blade of grass touches her face:

a tiny hand through the fence

reaching out.

The sun turns yellow, brighter, white.

Show and tell me what you know.