omaha

the new flat doesn’t smell like anything,
not fresh paint, or cleaner, or previous
tenants. never before has dust taken
so long to settle. i’m trying to stay here,
grounded in the scentless, untouched quiet.

but all this kind of moon ever does is throw
its many-shadowed blue arms over the floor
and, presently, my legs. it is the same moon.
then there is the same brick. concrete before

fields, him, and fields. my blood is in the dirt
and springs from that dirt, sediment caught
in my idiot heart, and a roughness in my voice
that wasn’t there before,
like the wind in withered stalks.

the last time he called, my phone slowly
made its way to the edge of the table
and jumped. it fell through the blue arms
and onto the cold floor where i lay,
still too moved to move.

Alexandra Cannon is a native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and recently graduated with a Masters in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway, University of London. She subsists primarily on caffeine products, and hopes to one day work out whether the precarious, wobbly thing she uses as a bookcase isn’t in fact just a giant version of the game ‘Jenga.’ You can find her at www.AlexandraLeighCannon.com