Eliana

by Kyla Alterman

I sat
on my black leather couch
surrounded by strangers,
my family, also strangers,
and plates of cookies
to distract restless hands,
reckless mouths.
And you came into the foyer.
You were taller than your mother
as it had been
since 4th grade.
And I couldn’t understand
why you were here.
Gramps was dead,
but you didn’t know him,
and hadn’t known me
for four years.

I thew my arms around you
and I didn’t understand,
but I hoped I looked good
so you would remember me now,
not just remember my tongue licking the sides of
your chocolate pudding cups. And
you no longer played Pink Panther, Spy Fox,
The Sims.
But I upgraded to the Simons 2.
And you, no doubt,
lost the photos of our first
halloween together,
while I have my ‘lil sis’
friendship bracelet stored away. Yet,
you were in
my foyer,
surrounded by strangers.
And in the days of
our back-seat-of-the-school bus dictatorship
I never thought it possible
us, also strangers.
So we talked
and I took a black and white cookie
because every word hurt.

Snow Day

by Kyla Alterman

Across the vast, white expanse
covered in a thick blanket
of snow-day snow
a stinging howl
carries fallen stardust
that spirals into
mock tornados
to pelt our faces;
the pink spreading
from the tip of my nose,
across my sinuses.

The football game
left the ground between
our touchdown trees
war torn.
While you stare
at what we left behind, I run
into you with the complete force
of my icicle limbs.
Your left foot slides an inch,
you let out a laugh;
27 tries and I still
can’t take down
your balanced, skinny frame.

I yell my defeats
into the crook of your neck,
swaddled in red cashmere.
My fists leave
faint indents
on your coat, and
your breath leaves
cold kisses, soothing
to know you’re mine.
Our hands say so too
from inside your pockets.

Gone To Pieces

by Kyla Alterman

Everything has gone to pieces
Tiny, sharp ones that I shouldn’t touch
because I once got a piece in my hand
and it burned, itched, and ached in my skin all at once
Tear tracks stained my cheeks
for too long despite myself; I hated the pain.

There is now a hole in my door’s window pane
like when a boy kicked through your bedroom door, scattering pieces.
You gathered them before people decided to touch
thinking it was safe to have in their hand.
The mood of the party changed at once
A disbelieving gape surfaced in everyones cheeks.

This hole in my living room door made my cheeks
fall, the now imperfect glass; I was sick of the pain
of finding a way to do it all wrong in the pieces
of every day and over time I learn not to touch.
There is nothing safe in my hand.
I thought I could perfect holding onto you once.

When I was little, I heard a story once
that told me with hope showing in your cheeks,
apologies and promises, you can cure the deepest pain.
Everyone becomes whole again, their souls’s pieces
are always yearning to forgive and touch.
You repair and create new strength like an extra hand.

Stories should do more than stay a wavering hand
but I seem to be the only idealist, can’t you get it too for once?
Frustration, like acid, burns through my stomach to my flushed cheeks
I can’t stop squirming and silently, from the pain,
I cry as my insides are torn to pieces
Even through my winter coat my chest aches to touch.

My fingers can barely remember the touch
of someone I want, and my hand
feels alien in someone else’s, so once
I chased yours back down, pressed it to my cheeks
and for awhile, we only had the pain
of wanting and loving each other to pieces.

My lungs barely expand enduring the pain of everything in pieces
Can’t you let them touch and create the extra hand for once?
Just another to caress my cheeks with when you return.

There Was  A Woman

by Kyla Alterman

There was a woman
who looked up at the stars,
and upon seeing them began to cry,
“How did I ever get so small?”
She brooded, then tried to call out
to hear the Universe’s retort
but her voice was lost— the air too thick,
buzzing — the surrounding dark too absolute.
“I barely exist, I barely exist”

She put her thumb in her mouth
and bit down, teeth marks leaving the skin
raw. Tiny droplets of crimson, of salt
formed, dripped down her lip, off her nose
until her face was sticky and she couldn’t endure.
Her stained lips faced
the sky that remained placid.
“Can’t you feel when we’re hurting?”

The woman took down the road — fast — with no shoes
feet forming tender bubbles.
Wind braced her skin, coveting, grabbing at her
warmth, translucent she pressed
through the darkness — too absolute — to where
her lungs stung of carbon, muscles twitching.
She crawled to the grass — rasping —
“Do I feel alive now that I feel life leaving me?”

The woman took a fistful of grass
pulled, blades breaking, pulled
“I can destroy! See, O I can destroy!”
But the newly stripped soil scoffed,
entangled with white, spindly roots.
—She pulled, blades breaking, pulled —
Clumps covered her lap, burying her
“How did I ever get so small in the darkness?”

Your Smile

by Kyla Alterman

The day belonged to
a fallen ice cream cone.
The simple pleasure that tumbled
leaving cookie dough to mingle
with chips of dirt,
rainbow sprinkles to scatter
like carnival ants.

And the girl who had tried
so hard today
to keep her eyes averted
from the gray, blank sky
couldn’t help thinking
how she did even the simplest of things wrong
as a passerby’s heel
grazed her vanilla puddle
and began forging a sticky trail
into the distance.

She bent over,
scooping up what she could.
Someone once taught her
it was rude to leave your loose ends
strewn for others to see,
so her lips were often bent into a smile.
The lonely boy in class told her
she smiled to much— how odd.
No one should be that happy.

No one ever is

The girl had a persisting headache
for months
she’d gone walking about
trying to pretend she wasn’t driven insane
by the pressure bursting in her skull
and the conflicting ideas of what to become,
how best to make her imprint
through her many facades created out of fear.
She often pictured her eulogy:
who in the pews could say they truly knew her?


She painted herself to look a certain part
hoping meaning and experience
would follow suit
rip through the gray, blank sky
like the image of his now unattainable smile
that persisted daily in her memory.
The day belonged to
scraping ice cream off the cold pavement,
trying to shake a feeling.