Train Daze

Train Daze
Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

Birches blaze by, leaves aflame,
a yellow fire fading to mulch beneath piles of snow.
The wailing horn, the steady pulse of clacking iron,
sounds the same in every language.

Lulling me towards dreams in motion,
lunar phases and time zones drift and shift past
without mention.
The daze of days spent riding rails,
a confusion, stinking bliss,
for feet cursed with a lust for less permanent ground.


Reverie Trails

Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

Reveries revealing winding trails to doors ajar,
in nights I waltz through forests
to find you in foliage, eyes shining,
the blue glow of our moon dancing
a train of shivers and sentiments across skin,
glazing with goosebumps.

The breeze whistles, beckoning our stride to the seaboard,
sand sprinkling its jagged glass spheres
over our imaginary fairytale.

When we wake, timezones stretched between us,
our nostrils fill with the scent of sea foam
from the shores of where we always meet,
a place we’ve never been before.

These haunting daydreams grip to all hours,
minds lost–wandering through
the thicket of reverie trails.

Sheets That Smell Just Like A Day At The Beach

Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

At first she only tasted the faint smell of salt seasoning the air, unaccompanied by any sight or sound. Her view was enveloped in a darkness so consuming she was momentarily convinced that salt had forever been painted black–that her memory of its whiteness was flawed, likely misinformed by a strange dream, a wrong deja vu. She could feel the rough grains of salt between her toes and would only realize what rubbed her skin when the light bent open her eyes. There brown, grey sand slipped through her and the sensory flood swelled as sea foam left its fading bubbles clinging above her ankle; limbs instantly washed over by the wet chill of an unforgiving sea, its crashing whistle ringing in her ears; the bath of warm sunlight dripping from her taut white bodice.

This was just like a day at the beach except that it wasn’t. Wherever Claire had just awoken was nowhere within the realm of the familiar despite the seething sensation that she’d done this all before.

Dreaming in poetry

Glass House Dreams
Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

In the middle of my glass house rests a body long-limbed,
made of muscles and passions quaking, drenched in neon moon-light.

This is me dreaming—
my arms twirling, twisting in the sea—
and then sunshine, splashing skin shades closely resembling the tan of sand—
and you’re there, on the sidewalk, with strangers thrashing past
like a stream of colored cotton laundry sinking,
gliding along the slick-slippery stones of a riverbed bottom—
and then stars, in their night-light roles, sprinkle shards
that make our reflections radiate in mirrors, as we morph into holograms,
our voices visually echoing, like fireworks
we imagine to be bursting in our sea-scened space—

These dreams, they come in twitches and turns,
in toes cold, slipped out of covers
and chest hot, coiled and buried in layers.

These dreams, they shatter with the rise of the sun,
grabbing eyelids wide open, peeling back memories
that were never memories at all,
but rather signs of desires and future fantasies,
gripped in the wrap of hourglass sand grains
hailing down fates hardly written,
but always written about.

The walls of my glass house shake, not in an attempt or wish to break,
but in movements to see something foreign and familiar
in distances and across seas,
times infinitely untouched by we human things.