the magician

I switch my feelings on and off like a magic trick.
out come bunnies from hats
maybe I’ll saw you in half or
I’ll tug on this never-ending handkerchief.
I tip my top hat to each new participant,
both of us blind, unsure,
because all of the magic,
the thrilling tricks,
I control none of it.
It’s a faucet with random temperatures,
so sure, so scalding, yet
freezing again in a moment.
It blisters, it numbs
all who come across it.

Reagan Fleming

never enough

it’s all just a losing game, I think.
some days are sunny, and you’ve been
tossed some marrow as an offering to
make up for lost time or
what’s been lost before,
but it doesn’t last more than a moment.

it’s like eating grass or some leaves that have fallen
yet you’re a carnivore and you always have been.
one meal—
finally,
and you’re full for now.
but come tomorrow or the next,
and the hunger’s back because
it was never enough
it never has been.

Reagan Fleming

better than you imagined

maybe it’s good to
buck yourself up for disappointment.
only so many times can you
wish for greener grasses
to get gravel instead.
maybe hope for nothing at all, but
just this once,
you could be wrong.
just this once,
it could be lush and rich and
filled with living creatures
hidden deep among its roots.
just this once,
it could be possible to
let yourself breathe it in,
breathe it all in
without the last breath looming,
with the knowledge that you can come back to this,
fill yourself to the brim or overflowing.
just this once,
you could be wrong, and
when you ask to sit with him,
he offers to hold you instead.
just this once,
it could be better than you imagined.

Reagan Fleming

I Want a Subaru With You

I want car seats in a Subaru with you
cereal scattered on the laminate.
I want daycare time crunches,
tiny books, and cluttered toy bins.
I want long hair again,
mid-week dates when we can squeeze them in.
I want little eyes that look like yours
watching how well you treat me.
I want beautiful brunette creatures who
ask me to braid their hair,
to play basketball in the driveway,
to watch movies with them after the homework is done.
I want the existence of
something I can’t even comprehend
I was close once
so I’ll hold onto that hope
that I might feel something like it
again.

Reagan Fleming

life is something.

life is short
life is exhausting
life is curious

It’s the uneven rubble
we walk upon to reach something.
It’s the oneness of souls, singing the same thing.
It’s the quotation
50 years past origin that rings true.
It’s the looking back on the light they left within you.

life is short
life is weighted
life is something.

Reagan Fleming

This is a poem I wrote partly in response to hearing about the death of Stephen Boss, AKA tWitch. I obviously have never met this person, but he appeared to me on social media to have an incredible life—a family, fame, and dancing talent. He and his wife would do these cute couple dances on Instagram, and sometimes their children would join. On the outside, it seemed like he was happy and content. Everyone is fighting their own battles on the inside, and unless we can develop a way where we can see into and read everyone’s thoughts, all we can do is be a positive light to someone. Life is short, and it’s absolutely something. We may as well use it to bring light to other people. Otherwise, what the hell are we doing here anyway?

backseat driver

I think back on
how I’ve masterfully
fucked everything up,
time and time, with each
person or persons.
They’re trails of almosts and
a never-ending list of
unexplained feelings and
”sorrys” —
I’m covering my bases
for experiencing life
just outside of
my own mind.
They’re backseat drivers,
hands firm on the wheel.
How would I take control back
after all these years?

Reagan Fleming

string by strand

rough, like an elephant.
compared to her peers,
it’s not just metaphorical.
the cracks and desert touch
of my unmet heart and
un-held hand.
patches of nothing
sitting on my head and
callused fingers from
instruments and taking away my
look,
string by string and
strand by strand.
one form produces music.
another, shame.

Reagan Fleming

Her

I call her “her”
the “her” I shamed, hiding multigrain slices
like secret manna,
the “her” I pinched and stretched—
yet always greeted me with softness.
the “her” I believed was off-limits for
anyone and myself.
the “her” I paused for curses, but
she comes back with thankfulness again.

Reagan Fleming

Palo Santo

Not merely a sound,
nor altogether raspy.
I hear you beyond this
room, and I
feel more than
one maybe ought to.

Through my nose and
along my spine, its
smoke feels soft, the
scent not overly sweet—and
corny or not,
you are
both those things.

Flickering glances,
the wish for sparks
to grow to flames—
then the fluorescents snap on
and I know you’re
”all ears”
but would you really want to
hear something like
this
from me?

Reagan Fleming