I Was Taking My Contacts Out in Our Bathroom When You Said You Didn’t Think It Was Going to Work
as if assessing the mechanical breakdown of one of your father’s boats. The contacts floated like transparent lily pads upon the solution while beyond the bathroom doorway, sitting at the foot of our bed, your edges blurred, you already looked like a specter, like something about to rise up and away from me, while my blind hands reached toward you, trying to hook you back. I never felt more solid, more leaden, than in that moment, and I envied the way your words sounded so unburdened and weightless, rising off of you and hovering in the air, making my eyes and throat burn. They came to me in pieces, disjointed from one another.
Sophia Thimmes has been published in Black Fox Literary Magazine, Luna Station Quarterly, Sink Hollow, and has presented on spoken word poetry at national conferences. She can often be found hiking in the woods, munching on carb-based foods, and becoming overly enthused about fat snowflakes falling in Utah, where she got her degree in English at Utah State University.
A Song for Sophia