sleepovers after summer/dream generator
Dynas Johnson
while listening to “난춘(亂春) (nan chun)” by 새소년 (se so neon)
“magic hour” by jhené aiko
and “we’re still underground” by eve
sprawled out across the rug i playfully nudge
your thigh with my foot. you throw an m&m at me from where you sit
on the couch. i nab it before it can hit the floor and you laugh at me. my chest feels like
i’ve been rubbing my skin with sunlight all night.
free nights off means soda pizza and movies that we’ll turn off to bop hits from the 80s
grind on chairs and sloppy sing though your voice is glitter on a night
without streetlights. when you slide off the couch and slump against my legs
i can feel you everywhere: all green energy and warmth. the room melts from pink
to blue. the contrasting flavors press memories lived and not yet lived onto my tongue.
i want to kiss you.
... .- -.-- /say
- .... . /the
-- .- --. .. -.-. /magic
.-- --- .-. -.. .../words
after the seventh time waiting for the car to pull up behind the house pulling on my sneakers and running out the front door i start bringing water bottles notebooks pens chips underwear and deodorant stuffed in a thin drawstring bag. it’s august and the sun freckles my skin with light as i pass under trees and into shadeless sidewalks. there’s kids walking to cornerstores holding phones basketballs little siblings’ hands. when we pass each other i avoid their eyes. i feel like a kid sometimes but no one can know that. no one can know that every night i have demented nightmares because of student loan payments or that having to use mom’s money until i hear back from a job and having to avoid dad because every conversation’s liable to turn into a sermon on church attendence splits my soul in several places. so many 2ams rubbing aloe vera on bruises while funshine bear totoro and pikachu wonder aloud ‘can aloe reach the places your fingers can’t touch?’ there’s no physical wounds other than the dead skin growing on the bottom of my feet from wearing the same paths into the ground. i walk in large squares not even counting the blocks i’ve wandered. you can tell the white people houses from the conservative houses. you can spot the gardens covered by an overhang of green leaves the size of my hands and the grills tied next to a bush of roses or hydrangeas and little cousins buzzing around a kiddie pool and know all the different people who live in our neighborhoods. that comforts me. seeing
all these different people living lives i’ll never see.
... .- -.-- /say
- .... . /the
-- .- --. .. -.-. /magic
.-- --- .-. -.. .../words
i walk past them all with a bag full of clothes a bottle of water day’s soda my charger. indie sighing in my ears while the sunset rinses its colors across then off the sky. i wonder what i’d look like to them if they’d notice me. do i look like i know where to go? do i look like i have somewhere to go? do i look as confused and lost as i feel? probably.
i’m on my way to you. i left the house early because i needed to run away again. mom’s really sad and embarrassed that we have to flutter about like this always prepared to fly away preconceived answers stuffed under my tongue. but i don’t need preconceived answers when i’m with you. you just tell me when to come over so i can make it in time for early dinner. one day we’re going to live together and i won’t have to run
away
anywhere.
... .- -.-- /say
- .... . /the
-- .- --. .. -.-. /magic
.-- --- .-. -.. .../words
i wake up in a rite aids/slumped in the frozen food section/the skin of my face popsicled against/the glass door in front of the ice cream/a grandmother glances at me with concern/as she places oatmeal and honey in her basket/no one questions me as i stumble to my feet/shake off my embarrassment and walk/towards one of the cashiers/cookie dough and mint chocolate even though i joke/about you using it as toothpaste just for you/to stuff a spoonful into my mouth/if i tell you the reason why i rile you up/
it won’t be as fun anymore
i wake up on the side of the road/cars speeding like they do on roosevelt boulevard/my neck’s sore from where i was sleeping: on my bookbag/body curled around my giant funshine bear phone sucking/its last charge from my portable before that dies too/no one notices because why am i noticeable?/my clothes are still clean i just don’t have septa money/it’ll be another however many miles to reach you this way/somewhere across all worries and time/that’s what makes me get up even though my feet’s blustered by/now and there’s no more
water/no one will notice
i wake up in my bed at home with a headache/posters on the wall including my bts one that’s still hidden behind/my door as if i’m not already grown and can like who i want without my dad /wondering why i have men on my wall/trust me i’m working on getting women and non-binary folks on my walls too/i’m up after staying up too late last night writing about my dreams/i’m only up because one of my little sisters shook me out/of my sleep saying/breakfast is ready momma made sausages eggs and pancakes/i put on my face mask brush my teeth gargle all without fully waking up/you weren’t finished telling me something /the dream
sequence cut off just before/
... .- -.-- /say
- .... . /the
-- .- --. .. -.-. /magic
.-- --- .-. -.. .../words
i’m on my way to you. i left the house early because i woke up too early. the moon was crying all night and it was hard to sleep in the first place. the shadows were whispering in the corners of my bedroom about old paths that i haven’t traveled down in a long time. they’re blurry with vegetation and overgrown imaginary friends that probably don’t recognize me by now. by the time they quieted down it was 6am and i figured there’s no reason for sleep to find me now. she’d been absent for hours.
sprawled across a cumulus cloud i write down all of my worries: not finding a dream job not having a dream not succeeding at dreaming so weird that dreams are measurable by money and material wealth when i thought they were just for making yourself or someone else as content or happy as you could manage something that made waking up an adventure and going to sleep a rest point for the next one but i guess i’m still a kid in an adult world i just want us to have something to smile about even when we’re sad
i’m on my way to you you who’s so smart and beautiful and a bunch of adjectives that only have meaning because they’re describing you you who’s a dream in yourself you who i want to be like you who reminds me to love even the half-asleep frightened anxious me who wanders and wanders and wanders in search of her bravery you who makes me feel brave you who tells me what i know and what i don’t know you who doesn’t have a dream yourself but who believes living itself is or can be a kind of dream you who i travel to with various methods: septa at 6am or 12am driven by a friend walking jogging running swimming swept away rolling flying up up up into your arms
spreading my thoughts across the floor amongst our cheddar-fries pringles soda-pop cheesesteaks dumplings whatever else fits our appetite we say our grace to a God that answers whether or not we’re watching we say our prayers and imagine full stomachs and a cozy apartment full of plants and homegrown herbs and cats and dogs and blankets and sage and anime posters and bts posters and old cds and friendly soot spirits and family that want to see us because they actually love us and friends that we’ve known in our hearts even before we met them and friends we’ve known since memories could make sense
we say our prayers holding each others’ hands
when we open our eyes
the sleepover’s official
... .- -.-- /say
- .... . /the
-- .- --. .. -.-. /magic
.-- --- .-. -.. .../words
we look through catalogs of fashion from the eighties and nineties.
neon fabrics punch our lights out. you contemplate bringing back
jean on jeans but that probably never left. nu-retro as rediscovery isn’t accurate
to describe what’s happening: memory and living occurring
in the same space in the same body in the same air and gesture of time.
for example: when i slide my hand over your knee
you smile shyly as if we weren’t curled around each other last night
as if i’m not planning on pushing you into the couch at some point while you drop
your blush off at the coffee table and make starlight out of our bodies.
our skin on skin is memory but you help me remember my present embody this moment.
looking into your eyes is more effective than breathing exercises.
i feel us shifting towards tomorrow cells
falling away and growing and falling away again we’re a little different
each time and yet this body still recognizes yours as a part of mine.
if i had to find you in a crowd without using my eyes
i would stumble and stumble until i felt a sunlight against my soul
and i’d know it was you
- .... . .-. . /.- .-. . -. - / .- -. -.-- /-- .- --. .. -.-. / .-- --- .-. -.. ... .-.-.- /
.--- ..- ... - / --- ..- .-. / -. .- -- . .../
there aren’t any magic words
just our names
A recent graduate from Temple University, Dynas Johnson was the vice president and an editor for SONKU, a university-founded organization for BIPOC creatives. She has poems published in Sooth Swarm Journal, Rogue Agent, Vagabond City Lit, Memoir Mixtapes, and others. Find her at https://dynasjohnson.wixsite.com/dynasthepoet or on Twitter @Dynasthepoet.