Colleen Salisbury

Second-Hand Elegy

The type of color to harden a room, knicking every neuron
of the living, a game of Plinko in each of us—numb
while simultaneously sensitive to everything. The puffy layers

protected me, as if I could understand why the geese swim
in January, the cold incapable of escape, the heat held
within the stitching left forgotten at the bottom of my closet—

lost in the spring. Until a memory of you is in a story, I am
warm. The memory—an endless repetition, Hey blue coat where
ya goin’ like fractured vinyl. Who’s posing the question? It no longer

sounds like you. When I pull the coat out it’s too small, as if it no
longer wants to be worn. It no longer wants to be a part of the present. It
no longer wants. Barely big enough to be considered a juniors’

small, maybe that’s why it couldn’t keep you
warm. Only parts of you, your eyes, your heart, your liver,
your lungs. Breathing in a new coat, the fabric moves

different, taking time to learn the syncopation. Last breaths spent
running—I want to know what song was playing, and why
your sneakers were blue.

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Colleen Salisbury is an undergraduate student at Salisbury University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vernacular Press and The Scarab. She is a junior and majors in Psychology and Creative Writing. She enjoys skating with friends, reading and the beach.