OPEN

A collaboration by Erin Morgan and Dan Cavallari 
 

this time,

the years command us:           tell the real story 

              now, 
 
              whatever's left—

              just say it 

      and 

plunge into the dark parts of the night. 
  

you know:               before

i never wanted to, 

or was too ______ . 
 

If, in syncopated breaths, I

         begin to tell you a

Story about 

  Us that        Never happened, 

Would you believe it for the sake of

         Knowing simply

We came

                       From 
 
Somewhere? 
 
    Days of this, and now I'm tired,

Strange to me how 
 

           Only empty rooms' voices can stir up 

Such burden, 

             Like an apothecary faking his

    Way through 

             a complex and brutal profession. 
 

it may not always be a like this, necessarily, 

               but you can still drive a wedge through it— 
 

                            can still feel like heavy words 

that fall from our hanging jaws. 
 
               you can lurch toward something.  toward progression, maybe 

or the makebelieve

but 

               just like then:  it's all right here. 

So, what we speak of in

           rooms with drab curtains we

haven't stepped 

into          in years 

     really revolves around 

a) trust

b) History

c) mistaken identity

d) I am tired of filling in the blanks 
 

And somewhere along the way we 

   Seem to have lost

          Focus on what, exactly,

The real story is. 
 

      But with railroad spike sincerity, 

Questioning gives us the answers and

          In four years' time, 

      This will feel like the first

   split-second toes enter water from 

        the dive off a high perch,

or the gentle swing of

         welcome at lift-off because 

The plane MIGHT be taking us home. 
 
 

      here, 

there's so much lost

sleepless night

after sleepless night. 
 

all of this,  a mere dream sequence

        where

there are landmarks for home:                                             
 

how light can fracture and scatter

    how patterns sometimes betray us 
 

        sloping through this skinny hour— 

and everything thrums on...