stockpiles of pretty
a broken marquee, mask
the ugly in our exhaust
and they dance on the cornice
of a walk up so many stories high
that they lose count
me, infected blood
suspended in the air,
taking the shape of a body
without flesh or muscle holding it together
pace nervously across creaky wood floors
above those trying to sleep
those who my mother would rather I join
instead I keep them awake
and at dawn, when
titian begins to break through
the miasma
revealing itself to be the great looming beast
only ever spoken about as hypothetic
there is a lull in the dancing
until blue breaks free from
venomous horizon
a great exaltation from the crowd on the roof
the sight of the sky means one more day
to celebrate, to dance
and I,
infected blood, suspended in the air
join the party
despite reason and worry
and desperate, unmet calls to action
I dance with the congregation
that only ever had enough time
to learn how to dance
and I dance
nearly spilling over.
Sam Stoich’s personal essay, “From Memory’s Drawer,” won third prize in the Eighth Annual School of Visual Arts Writing Program Contest. Sam is a graduating senior in the Photo and Video Department at SVA. This is how Sam poetically describes himself: “Stigmata by pleather after a long day with no chauffer, adversity without any real market appeal and me, infected blood suspended in the air.”