Sacred Space
 
Sacred space, sacred measure
measures the two feet between us
as you ash your cigarette out the right side window
I ash mine out the left
each honoring our dominant side;
all that weakness in between.
I hate being touched
and I love being dramatic
and that adds another thin breadth
of a kindling crowbar
prying, perpetuating
this promising air between us
We don’t like to talk
about any of the things
we’ve been told are enjoyable.
What we want, what makes us happy,
what makes us (subtly) special.
We’re not alternative. There is no alternative
to this trembling homogeny. Film over a lagoon.
I know what makes me happy:
the echo of an organ after church
my soft, always empty bed
lights reflecting off the bridge
cups of tea made by my Dad
and his soft, wintry hands.
I know what makes you happy:
pale, pretty girls
startling contrasts
equality, careful design
And I know what makes us sad.
People spending money
My dead aunt’s cat
sixteen year olds in twenty year old bodies
the existence of romance and its acceptance of insanity.
We know what’s poetic about this.
We know what’s ironic about this.
But please, we don’t have to talk about it.

 

 

 

Megan Townsend is a first year student at Fordham University in the Bronx, where she studies theology. She has never before been published, and though this poem is of a different variety, she hopes to write for future generations by intersecting her love of theology and social justice with her poetry and prose. Her contact email is: [email protected].