Courtney Peters

Wooden Planes

I’ve been trying to use less metaphors when I write
Instead of saying                     every morning I pick the splinters of you from my lungs in our bed
I have been saying                  I make a pot of coffee for the house first thing in the morning 
Instead of saying                     I spit each sliver onto the side where you used to sleep
I have been saying                  I now see a point to always make the bed 
Instead of saying                     I will continue to wretch until I’ve recreated you from particles
I have been saying                  beginning each day with a long run has been helping me
Instead of saying                     your silence filled a plane that crash landed on the couch
I have been saying                  every time I leave the house I put Frank Sinatra on for the plants
Instead of saying                     that engine is still sitting in the living room, I think it is a live bomb
I have been saying                  the dog still just listens to 80’s hits while I’m gone
Instead of saying                     I think the captain is always calling your name
I have been saying                  I think I am always calling your name

Courtney Peters is currently a student and community servant in North Carolina. She has spent the last three years involved in community activism and organizing to help drug users and marginalized North Carolinians regain agency, with a lot of poetry thrown in. She writes to understand the trauma around her, both done to her and those around her. In her spare time, you can find her bending in a yoga room, buying plants, or spoiling her dog.