Brynn Martin: This Is Not a Tragedy
A Breakup
the sunbeam is a kind of light. the sunbeam is a light, kind of. the sunbeam that is a light of kinds opens as it reaches. the sunbeam is not quite a light. the sunbeam is a light, not quite, but kind of. the not quite light of the sunbeam is open. the sunbeam is white open and reaching, a light but not quite. the sunbeam that is not quite white light blooms.
the sunbloom beams open. the sunbeam blooms open white. the opening bloom of the sunbeam reaches a daisy. the sunbeam lights the bloom of a daisy. the sunbeam blooms as the bloom of a daisy but not quite. the not quite daisy bloom of the sunbeam is light. the sunbeam and the daisy bloom white.
the sunbeam daze is light. the sunbeam bloom dazes a man. the sunbeam doesn’t bother with dazed men in sunglasses. this is not a tragedy. the sunbeam cares little for sunglasses or their men or their days. the sunbeam days are light white. the sunbeam lights the days. the days of the sunbeam are white light and blooming.
the sunbeam blooms on the grass at the top of a mountain. the sunbeam suns the cheek of a woman asleep atop a mountain. the sunbeam light blooms a mountain. the beam suns everything atop a mountain. the sunbeam lights a mountain bloom. the sunbeam opens the woman and reaches.
the sunbeam ricochets across a room. the sunbeam in some of the room ricochets light. the light of the sunbeam flickers some of the room. the sunbeam flickers and opens the room. the sunbeam blooms and escapes the room. this is almost what I mean.
Brynn Martin is a Kansas native living in Knoxville while she pursues her MFA in poetry from the University of Tennessee. Her poetry has appeared in Public Pool and Contrary Magazine. She loves ee cummings and cats almost equally.
