An Attempt

By Angel Cox


She feels a whisper
underneath her feet, crawling up
from the pavement. Pushing or pulling she does not know
or why they exist. Or anything.
Singing mysteries of the universe
that are lost but linked like neuron pathways
of the seventeen-year-old mind, could be
constellations or maybe

not. Maybe just black holes and empty cups
to be filled to the brim with dreams or liquor,
whichever comes first, whichever is more convenient,
so at home she mixes a drink and some DXM and if something comes out of it
maybe gets to breathe another day. How do you cross that

bridge when it comes? Second-guess the journey
with no drive just the whisper, whisper, whisper,
and no answers. Mourning in the mirror she sees the fraud self,
the marred walking bag of bones and fat and skin. And as the
days pale, the sun still comes shining light on things she would rather not see:
call it take two, another attempt at living.