about my feelings but I’m only far enough along the path to know I have them, not yet at a distance
where I can name each one, pluck it from the air and pin it to the corkboard, place it under glass beside a scrawl
with Latin and location. It’s like the forced pathos of Pixar, little twinges of sound and sinus, all
complementary colors. The heat seeker of data can’t know my heart but there’s a knot I get when I find
I’ve caused harm and one I get when I think about who I used to be. Everyone I know says I’m someone
I’m not. Look, I’m sorry for barely trying to keep this thing on the rails. I’m sorry for only listening
when it’s convenient. I can apologize. I’ve practiced. Somehow, I’ve learned that’s what I can control.
(And all the acceptance in the world doesn’t stop the feedback loops from churning.) Is that what this is? This Being thing?
Language as symbolic feeling as a wave, which itself is slower light, and is invisible to me – God,
it makes me want a line to stretch across from me to you, or you, or you. The one foot, the six foot, the mile
long, the one stretched over changing time- zones between the setting sun and rising moon. Once, the monarchs trapped my vision
as they relayed across the landscape, an orange tumult so thick it turned to shadow, even as its spaces filled with sky.
Chase Ferree (he/him) is a teacher in Seattle. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal, Peripheries Journal, Juke Joint, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @freechasetoday.