<one>
tinted itch. hands tear across youth,
naming fake babies like naming lakes i’ve never seen in person. longbody hair
gives me strength, gives me courage to squeeze a stinking ingrown, fully
matured + curled into itself. painful wheel of anatomy. i sniff the silver fish
double bonded with crafted precision (far away). i am reminded. truest cold, a
pillow shorn from the sweetest belly. the eye of my crunchy apple. absconded
wait we sit. examine. behind or between each knobby lobe. ears excrete the
liquid nicotine staining my fingers or tongue.
<two>
look, i motion, check my teeth. witness
the exam from afar. see how many years’ burn the tea leaves left behind.
qualify nothing, examine everything. sill traumatized babies. let the smell of
ur feet mingle into the very fibers of the gravest bedding. gently fading +
rising. flat sunflower under my hips, searching. misrepresented but seen. if
leaving the circle causes doubt, just tip ur cup and scorch the liquid. let it
spread like an aesthetic across a stained bathmat (commercial break). knitted +
forgot like the nachos served in tiny baseball helmets at my electric funeral.
<three>
plastic threat of circulation to the
second segment of my index finger. i watch it turn under the lamp in the
fridge. it’s not about mattering most or even mattering at all, but about the
squeaky floorboards whispering me awake with gratitude deep in the night. a sophomoric
build + earthy drums mean gentle ripples from the bottom up. a place where i
hear the sand but won’t drown. pronouncing the invisible letter. falling for
hours. slipping between fabric weave.
Sara Matson (she/her) is a poet in Chicago. Her poems can be found in Bone Bouquet, Kicking Your Ass, Ghost City Press, and crumpled in recycling bins from Berlin to Waukegan. Sara hosts the seasonal online reading series Words // Friends and her latest chapbook, (Women) In STEM is available from Bottlecap Press. Find her on Instagram @skeletorsmom