
an outlet for emerging arts

Meredith Johnson
Meredith Johnson is a writer living and working in Austin, Texas from Lafayette, Louisiana. She's been writing since childhood.
Meredith just completed her first book of poetry, “Becoming,” which catalogs battle, surrender, sex, and what it means to be human. She is currently seeking representation for her memoir. Meredith created and hosts the podcast, "Remarkable Voices," conversations on creativity, culture and big ideas, available on all major platforms.
Perhaps I Was A Strand of Cotton (Structure)
Perhaps I was a strand of cotton
Or the wing of a cicada
Steel beam
Gust of wind
Denim string
A tiny eyelash falling down someone’s cheek as they laughed
uncontrollably at the joke of a friend
I was a jester at court
I was a pearl on the neck of Queen Elizabeth, watching her rule a
Kingdom with grace and dominance when no one thought she would
I was the first insignificant droplet of rain which no one saw fall during a
hurricane before the weatherman forecasted his report that terrified
everyone
I was the crack in the windowpane that saw families come together and
fall apart in a cabin, then broken down into a barn for dozens of farm
animals, then land restructured for reconstruction into cookie cutter
neighborhoods whose lawns held no space between them.
I was the rubber that Carnegie put on his first car when he thought he
could do it
I was the leather on Amelia Earheart’s jacket when she told everyone to
stop projecting their doubts onto her, which kept her safe from the wind
I was the chalk on the chalkboard that fell onto the ground which broke in
half when your teacher dropped it because you sneezed in class and she
turned around
I was the shoe that the soldiers threw into the machine during the
Industrial Revolution that bore the word Sabotage
I was the original ember burning up towards the sky when man first
discovered fire
​
I was saliva and cum in the mouths of millions kissing during the Sexual
Revolution
I was a plucked string on a porch the first time a child played a guitar his
brother gave him
I was a rock on a dirt, then gravel road
And all of my atoms have lived so many lives and adventures since then
We are all everything, crucial, and yet nothing
Shreveport, Gordon Crockett
My first memory is my sisters
Jumping on my parents’ four-post bed
Divorce, they said
I walked to the bathroom
Where my parents were yelling
​
What a thing to remember first
​
I know they think I don’t remember
But I do:
​
The house you built together
In the woods
Northern Louisiana
When you were still together
I was three
Before I got a chance to really enjoy it
And experience what family is like
With a father around
​
I loved sitting on your lap in the living room
Declaration
​
I agreed to all of it
I agreed to the living and the dying
The shedding of skin and bones
​
The screaming, the crying
The angering, the sighing
The nothing, the lying
​
The surrendering, the giving up
​
The finality
​
Nothing out of virtuosity
Out of no other choice but life or death
​
Little white flag
​
Nothing attractive or proud about it
Away
​
Everything I used to be
Crawled away from me
Slowly
​
Into the back alley shadows
Where I used to fuck
Strangers
​
Not easily
But
Everything I used to be
Crept away from me
Hauntingly
Stuck into ghoulish accounts of my history
​
Like a gnat stuck in honey on a hot day
​
And my transformation, my exorcism has taken so long
It is still happening
But
The more my exoskeleton
Breaks away from me
The more I move toward my now self
And whisper “away”
To my previous being
“I forgive you now”
Everything, Nothing
​
To bask in your love
Is to lay back in a galaxy of nothingness
A black hole of everything
A blanket of moving stars
As you count the tiny moles on my face
I am safe
I am loved
You are revered
​
Hammock of comfort back and forth
Swinging towards the south and north
No demeanor can be predicted
When we hold each other like this
What bliss