by Sabrina Almeida
1. A Tent: to wake up unstartled
a leaf in the river,
your breath current
pulling you into your parents’ side.
Morning light softly filtered green
through the tent’s thin veil
that allows moisture in
along with the smell
of the neighbour’s coffee
2. Pavement: the hiss and whisper of collapse
with the laugh and screams of children.
As the rest of the class races inside,
you move against the current
to embrace the ambiguity
of a recess not yet cancelled.
In your eyes, everything is still possible.
The sky cannot fall fast enough
to trap your feet in place
so you are running
can catch you
3. The Roof: the shingles sing every time
their fingers collide with the rain,
a symphony washing over my skull
and an ache for a love I’ve never had.
the beauty of human hands
waiting for downpour to return,
to reassure it that the wind screams
just like us,
just as startled to see us pass,
unable to be stopped
so keep going
come back to me
fall onto me
as a buzz in my brain
and melting amber evening light
tell me you need me
you who never die
tell me you never knew music
until you felt my touch
Sabrina Almeida is a 21 year old poet from Toronto, Ontario, where she studies management at the University of Toronto. Her poetry is featured in publications such as Acta Victoriana, The UC Review, and Wandering Autumn Magazine, among others. You can find her on YouTube @Sabrina Almeida and on Instagram @sabrina.almeidapoetry.