OPEN

friday, evening, early spring darkness:

the sign for the discoteca buzzes,

cliché flicking in and out of existence.

 

I pass by and I remember a car ride.

listening to the radio. a soothing voice 

telling me that neon signs

are made by hand, every one.

 

but that is wrong, I was the one speaking,

not the radio; and time flickers too,

false memories curling into each other:

no, I remember now,

not a car at all but a sidewalk,

headphones on, podcast explaining

the craftsmanship of neon, or argon,

 

and the slow loss

of these shimmering lights.

Audrey Lewis is an emerging writer living in New York, NY. She writes before, after, and all around the mundane responsibilities of life - looking for beauty in unlikely places. Despite her current east coast address, her heart belongs to the Great Lakes.

 

Check out Audrey Lewis' poem for Ana Mendieta as well as an interview over at our sister press Cathexis Northwest Press

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