Sheep Dreams
My sheep stumble down the plank
and jump ship
crashing into waters whisking with every shark
that ever detected the drunken cologne
of my blood
PLACE SETTING
Where you live when you are not where you are living, and by living, I mean residing.
And by live, I’m referencing the space constructed of memory and curiosity. And by curiosity,
I speak of the galaxy where dead wishes can’t be piled like bodies. They float seamlessly,
snag your eyes with a twinkle of a wink. A location as unattainable as those aspirations you
gifted pulse and game plan. Then suffocated, ripped to portions, and ingested slowly. Well, shit.
The setting of a play, a place, the actors are not all actors, you are writer, director, knowing
it will never be produced.
FIN
Ghosted
I ghosted myself
or am I a ghost to myself?
Haunting my leftovers, haunted by what
I left over in a geography
without space or proof.
Hushing Heroes
I’ve been reading my heroes wrong
I’ve been reading my heroes bedtime stories
A collection of heroes
is a herd of one’s own insecurities
I’m rocking both to sleep
Bekah Steimel is an internationally published poetic person who was “mostly dead, slightly alive” on VV ECMO life support in 2019 from double lung failure (get your flu shot! And, COVID vaccine as well!). An artist reporting back from the other side. Developing Chance Books LLC. She can be found online at bekahsteimel.com and followed @BekahSteimel.