Parker Dean

i am full of rocks and other heavy things

is there a word

smaller than “trauma”

that i can apply

to that middle-ish part

of my life where i

desperately wanted

to cleave myself

from the body and

float aimless

pendulum

all-seeing eye

better yet, a ghost

is there a word

for small wounds

for persistent achings

this was only just

suicide ideation

misplaced anger

this was only just

puffy eyes, lips

chapped to bleeding

i was just

full of rocks and

other heavy things

is there a word

not for beginnings

or endings

but a secret third thing

liminal but

all-together solid

childhood memories

blacked out

forgotten

and dreams

vividly

remembered

weight i carry

but no longer feel

stowed baggage

into the muggy abyss

of my brain matter’s

lost-and-found

what word is there

a small-ish word

for something so heavy

Synesthesia for the Unemployed

thursday is a sun-ripe plum, purple

as a bruise and lasts ten times as long,

and when she gives way to friday, time

becomes red and terracotta, twilight

orange, but for those blissful twenty-four

hours, time is violet. this is the only way

you can track time now, you see,

by measuring its wavelengths, analog

means nothing, day and night are

concepts for the desk jockeys and blue

collars. monday is red, but darker than friday.

tuesday is green thumbs and moss, wednesday

is orange peels and clay, saturday and sunday

bleed yellow and blend into lemony pulp, but

thursday, oh thursday, she is grape soda,

lavender, blackberry and amethyst.

BIO

Parker Dean (he/him) is a trans and queer writer based in Seattle. Along with his lifetime friends, he runs an online lit. mag called Silly Goose Press. He is a writer for The Evergreen Echo, and you can find his creative work in Clamor, Bullshit! Lit., and Troublemaker Firestarter.