No Clip

A savage can’t sit still.

Nothing about me can.

I’m subject to my body,

which is subject to the past.

Something from the past

cinches my calf muscle. 

Is it knowledge?

Or was it violence?

Are those two things

the same?

My ankle cracks

when I go down the stairs.

My bones tell all my business.

When I went to meditate

in a shrine behind a Victorian,

the guide told me

to get up and circle the space.

Stillness wasn't something I could 

get being still.

My thigh muscle screeches

while I’m trying to write.

It would rather fight gravity

than hide, quiet, from my mind.

I used to take off running 

on the beach at night

when I went with my friends 

to drink and smoke.

We were all fucked up, 

so nothing was strange.

I could’ve been anyone, no one.

The wet sand was soft. 

I didn’t break my ankles.

All my bones fell into accord.

I’ve been called quiet. 

I’ve been called lazy. 

I’ve been called a mermaid 

at the movies. 

When I stand on my porch at night,

I call myself between cupped hands.

The moon ripples on the lake.

I hope my echo comes home gifted.

Bree Jo’ann Flannelly is a writer and artist based in Indianapolis. She’s a candidate for an MFA in Creative Writing at Butler University. Her work has appeared on Poets.org and in Peach Mag, The Journal Petra and The Indianapolis Review.