when i was 19
i made a cave under
the stairs at the bottom
of a well i had fallen in.
dark and lit like green
sea glass. i had left my shoes
with my body and
in my socks
tried to convince myself
that i wasn’t stuck.
echoes of home and comforting timbres
bounced down the soft green walls
of the well and into my cave
but when i climbed to the top
the faces were wrong, and i melt
underneath an atrium of strangers
that speak in stolen tongues.
the voices found new hosts
blank stares i didn’t know
but my red face and wild
eyes stared into theirs
and they couldn’t look back
but continued to stare without me.
the fear burned my skin like damp cold
and i have never existed in my body
as wholly as i did in that cave
in that well
when i knew they were shadows
but i believed them.
Marilynn Eguchi is a recent graduate of Loyola University Chicago. She has published book reviews and poems in Cleaver Magazine, Tupelo Quarterly and City Brink. She is the winner of Loyola's John Gerrietts Award for creative writing. She spends her free time as a community organizer in Chicago and a cat mom.
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