Eleanor Curran
I loathed my love; a cold, hard study in petrology.
Asphalt skidded as flesh hit the rough grooves
of the pen line. Petrarchan poetry never breathed
the way my boulders did with me. In, out, in, out,
crunching up and down my ankle with each gasp.
I sat on a rock. Cooked in the sun. Cold skin on hot stone.
I hissed: Leave me alone. Let my blue blood bubble,
maybe to a purple. I had to rip my sticky legs away,
and kneel. Grit and grime in my knees. Picking out
little shells and grim creatures. Myself, barnacled.
The best and the hardest and the meanest. No words
could touch me, no brick brave enough to be thrown.
I was finally on my own. Me. Blood and Boulder.
The angel on Sisyphus’ shoulder,
whispering, chittering:
Let go.
Eleanor is an undergraduate student, majoring in English literature and ancient history. In between trips to Courtyard Café, she can be found reading at Schaeffer Library or passionately debating in a classroom. Her interests include her gargoyle-like cat, any and all Suspiria films, and Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights.
