“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.