Pushing the Sky
Jason Brightwell
Scotch till I can’t and pills—
evening ritual.
Flush, I push off the bed.
I am the sheetrock ceiling, gypsum
tongue.
I nestle in the pink heat of attic
insulation, prickle fluff, I’m tucked,
ready for the permanence
of the grave.
But I’ll come slinking down—
hollow ghost, shaky. Sober.
Never have I ever
wanted so to not recover.
Push harder.
I’m in the trusses, splinter skin,
the black shingles on the roof,
the air itself.
I scatter with blackbirds.
Wet my dried out poison-tongue
on clouds, I’ll long for you,
keep pushing
Close now, I am darkness,
crowding around your moon—
white light at the
top of night.
At last—ethereal. With you,
I can dissolve as pink hints
of light begin hugging
out the dark.
Jason Brightwell lives in a tiny resort town tucked away on Maryland's Chesapeake Bay where he finds himself routinely haunted by one thing or another. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including: Gravel Magazine, East Coast Literary Review, Phantom Kangaroo, and The Tower Journal, among others. You can find him online at jasonbrightwell.com.