Suzannah Kolbeck writes and paints in Baltimore, Maryland. Her work focuses on a declamation of the ordinary that highlights moments of time that we might normally miss – for better or worse. Suzannah’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Plainsongs, Pomme Journal, and 50 Haikus.
You form me in your own imagination as I sit, Wordless, Across the bed strewn with unlovely flowers, Rotted from last night’s waste of time there.
The dawn has barely crested the hill of night When our voices raise towards each other, Biting and angry, Filled with the kind of poignant hurt Only borne of long association And diminishing regard.
You say I have become something you don’t recognize. I say you wouldn’t recognize me if I slapped you in the face. You say try it. And I do. My handprint blood-raised on your cheek. Recognition clouds your eyes.
It’s a wasteland, A vast, endless trudging from This day to that one.
The landscape – sere, lifeless – Stretches from the horizon like a hand, Clutches a fistful of my shirtfront, And drags me to the line between Earth and sky.
I just wonder how long it will hold on, Just when it will let me go, Wrinkles in my stretched out collar.