“Construction” by Aimee Lowenstern

Previously published in Sundog Lit

He stands like he is waiting for something.

Walks like he is waiting for something.

He is waiting for something.

I build the waiting room around him.

Pin his heart to the wall. A clock. He presses my hands

against it. Can you feel my pulse?

Barely. But yes.

If I can say yes, then I will say it.

When I say heart, I mean butterfly.

When I say pulse, I mean wings.

And my hands? My hands are windows,

and I saw a butterfly like that, once,

through the glass.

I mean seaglass.

I mean the delicate tint

of his eyes,

which I cannot describe

as anything that is not beautiful.

When I say I build the waiting room,

I mean I have been sitting in it for a long time.

By which I mean,

I have been sitting in my body for a long time.

So when I say I build the waiting room,

I mean I would like to wrap my body

around his. This does not mean

we are done waiting.

It means I would like to open the window

and let the butterfly in.

Aimee Lowenstern (She/her)
Aimee Lowenstern is a twenty-four-year-old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and is fond of glitter. Her work can be found in several literary journals, including fifth wheel press and Unstamatic Magazine.

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