Julianne Eleanor is a 22-year-old poet and painter. She is currently pursuing an MA in Writing through Mitchell Scholarship (US-Ireland Alliance) at N.U.I.G. She holds a BA in International Relations. Julianne currently volunteers with the Irish Jewish Museum in Dublin, and with Art for Amnesty in London. She has two sugar gliders, four sketchbooks, and an uncountable number of pens.
the treasure of you is in the way
your black, black hands painted eggshell white
are held together by strained pale skin
desperate veins seem to lose energy, sad, the struggle ended
a long time ago but you kept going,
up until two am every night on some project you won’t tell me about and if it were anyone else I’d say,
Why, you’re not doing anything at all
and then you’re late the next day with
all my tears on the inside because I’m old now,
because I’m used to waiting.
the treasure of you is how when you’re not here
I clasp your eggshell hands in my skeletal grip
and you can’t stop me
because you’re nowhere near.
(yet you’re here)
Just a moment
My capillaries are all bunched around my ears
bits of water buzzing, vibrating rather than flowing,
because my fingers don’t stop tapping and my
bones hang loose around my ankles like wet carpet,
trudging steps with a half-hearted flounce at the toes.
Graceful spins are not trumped by trips
but the more I fall, the slower I rise.
What I mean to say is that I hoard sounds.
They line the inside of my skull like mucus
and slip right out when I’m sick
and I’m always sick,
I try to sit as still as I can
chair rocked back,
robe part of the upholstery.
I remember the time we decided
to turn into grizzly bears for the winter.
We danced, ate sweets around the fire
as shadows echoed off fierce cavern walls
and I was proud of plump berries,
stuffed in my mouth alongside
honeyed late-season salmon.
You didn’t treat the furs properly
and my hands came away streaked red.
When I screamed you popped raspberries
into my open mouth, lending rimmed lipstick
that you said brought out the blue in my eyes.
You wanted to smother the fire.
I begged for more time, but in the end
it burnt out on its own and I, out of sticks,
turned to race outside for more
but was stopped by a wall,
a sheet of ice that blanketed
the entrance and left me
There was a pickaxe
I could have used –
I hefted it in my hands
and swung it wide, an icy arc,
but I stopped, dropped,
left it on the ground.
You told me it was just a hibernation
a quiet time, a considered contemplation.
As I threw clothes aside, embraced the cold,
for a rosy moment my heart smoldered,
then sputtered, gave in to deep frost.
I watched you sleep
with frozen eyes
as I waited