'these words that fall through' | Sunday Poetry


Every Sunday, WRITTEN CITIZEN now will have an active poetry corner full of words and art by both our staffers and you.

'these words that fall through' is a forthcoming book being created by WRITTEN CITIZEN Founding Editor-in-Chief, Zoe G., and WRITTEN CITIZEN Fiction Editor, Jessica. Their mission statement is as follows:

"[these words that fall through] is being built on the concepts of melancholia in youth, love and home and friendship in whichever forms they come, and the raw tenderness of our cities and of our world. 
      we hurt and we love. we curse and we kiss. we write and we see. most of all, we feel. sometimes we may be afraid to do so, but through art — through you — we understand ourselves better. and that is what this book is: a testament to understanding, even amongst the foggy and the gray. 
      this is our youth. you are our friend. we are in love. this is your family. we are home. the pathway to the past: these words that fall through. coming soon to your city (after the rain)."
The following words are words... that fall through. Follow them on Instagram @thesewordsthatfallthrough or contact them at thesewordsthatfallthrough@gmail.com.

Opening Night

by Jessica Nauta

I sit in an empty room
the window is cracked
the heat is unbearable
(I must air myself out).
I sit, singularity hindering my own
memory of last night. Admittedly,
my mind still wanders to Opening
Ben Gazzara
and mornings with you.

This is not acting (how could it be)
I'd miss your dull hair when the fluorescents hit it
I'd know your crooked teeth too well to complain about distance.

You remind me of John
or I guess he reminds me of you.

How do you work?
Let me find out how you work
a balancing act, an empty page lowered voice, heightened senses.
Let me find out how you work.
Let me find you every morning
coffee in one hand, pen in the other
going on about Gazzara (again) or city lights or me 

selfish lover.

by Zoe Gilligan

Listen to the full poem here and read it below.

in this passenger seat, my bare skin shifts
on cocaine leather.
I ride next to you. I make you think
of music and of all the times you could not cry.
of where the river meets the ocean,
of where the land looks away, but where the sea
holds you tightly. your gaze, unwavering,
never leaves the road.
I want to fix your eyes.
I've yet to see your sun
but you let me use your 
toothbrush and I know 
my youth belongs to you
stuck in the zipper of the bag
you told me to pack three hours ago.
I'm far from home.

I am young. I am told of truth
as subtle touches in sad ways
that become my skin
under which
I find you.
all you do
is pry off these ragged clothes,
trace my naked bones of aching
salt pillars, and graze my morning glow
with teeth that never did need braces.
but I did.
I let you in my mouth.
you took all the erasers on the ends
of my pencils because
I no longer am young.
I cannot erase what's been done.
I've used all my chances.
(on you.)

selfish steal.
wide-eyed lily-white innocent
ringing through a strange land,
snowy footprints sealed in jars of indifference,
just lay me down on the tired timber
of your haggard cottage.
I'll awake next to you
on the floor
but I'll have already lost you.

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