Brianne Holmes

Brianne Holmes lives in Upstate South Carolina where she works in marketing and communications. In 2016, she earned a Master of Arts in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from East Carolina University. Her writing has appeared in several publications, including the North Carolina Literary Review, Relief, The Twisted Vine, the Journal of Microliterature, As Surely As the Sun Literary, Abandon Journal, Foreshadow, and Heart of Flesh Literary Journal. Learn more about Brianne at brianneholmes.com.

silver shift, mourning dress

We stacked doubt

on the pantry shelf

enough to last the winter;

you said yourself

it would be hard and bitter.

All night long, the sea lay howling 

at the moon; problems swam in murky pools

and prowled the shoreline in the gloom;

a pinprick of the future stabbed my heart,

pierced my finger, broke my peace apart.

Next day I checked

the pantry shelves and found

some worry missing,

vanished in the night

without a sound.

You said, “I know

exactly who to blame”—

your eyes were boring holes

into the wall behind my ear—

“but I would never

mention any names.”

How good of you, my dear,

to misdirect your aim.

Tonight, I’ll walk

the ocean’s highest tide

while you lurk in the pantry

guarding our supplies.

***

I saw the darkened ocean filled up to the brim

with calendars and empty rooms and rocky fields and ash.

The rising moon became a crown, the waves a silver sash;

the maw of night was velvet, but the roaring sea was grim.

I wish that you were here with me to understand my thoughts,

but you are busy counting all the dangers I forgot.

***

Why do you need, I’d like to know,

that shelf around your neck?

If you forgot it for one day,

would we die of neglect?

And no,

I am not finished yet,

long as the moon remains;

and if you please,

I wish you would

forevermore refrain

from spitting words

with acid laced

upon the window

frame.

This house

is difficult,

you know,

to scour

and maintain.

Tonight, I’ll walk the breakers

from midnight until day

while you stand in the kitchen

keeping sleep at bay.

***

The night was clothed in shadows, no light upon the sea;

the mountain clouds obscured the luminescence that we need.

I saw an empty ship sailing strangely close to me

with your silhouette aboard and your shadow roaming free.

And farther down the shoreline was a staircase made of stone;

it was higher than the mountains, it was whiter than our bones.

Your shadow stood upon the height, singing all alone

in a dress of woven starlight, flecked with silver foam.

I never stopped to notice the plummet of your dreams,

and I never paused to hear the murmur of your screams.

***

You look so tired,

wilted, wan

inside this morning light;

your eyes would like to slap me

for welcoming the dawn.

I’ll try to start a fire

in this empty, ashy grate;

for kindling I’ll use briers

that I weeded by the gate.

I patched the drywall of your dreams—

did you even notice?

Shall I install

new window panes?—

the current view is hopeless.

Tonight, I’ll bake

a lullaby entirely from scratch

while you sit on the sofa

and sample every batch.

***

I never wanted much in life and now I want far less,

but words are hard to catch like fish and properly express.

But I will wait—

till the moon has risen on the waves and spreads a shining carpet at your feet;

then be brave—

run your fingers through the breakers, greet the patient light;

and come—

for you will find no need to stock the shelves, the countertops, the drawers; and let us be done

with this hoarding of the world—

not because we have plenty, but because we need none.

Read Brianne’s work and more in Solum Journal Volume VI: Doubt (forthcoming).