sharp as a thorn.
I held on
to whatever
it had been
at the start of existence,
a stem cell
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
sharp as a thorn.
I held on
to whatever
it had been
at the start of existence,
a stem cell
I am a maze of swinging doors.
Catch me, I’ll fall. Feel my ink.
Lost in the torn pelt of my wounds,
I’ve dabbled in sores and spirits.
Fruit of fungus
feigner of fauna
fusion of puck and protoplasm
pale sun after rain,
shadows come back shyly—
they’ve been washed
That cow can’t walk. She’s all lame. I won’t touch her hooves.
Dried for sale, sea stars remind you
that we haven’t seen the Atlantic
breathing heavily along a beach
for a couple of plague-struck years.
The party is winding down and it’s time to make your exit. You stand in the living room mentally preparing for the torrent of goodbyes you’re now socially obligated to initiate. It is Christmas Eve.
I told no one. Not my parents, not my older sister, not my little brother. I locked myself in the bathroom while my mother stirred tomato sauce and tasted spaghetti (we did not like al dente).
A sprinkling of much needed rain has fallen overnight, and some of the roses have left broken mosaics of red and yellow petals on Dad’s newly cut lawn. Ideal conditions.
goat cheese cannoli with garden gem tomatoes & a floral salad
a hot croquette with apple compote, pumpernickel, & sherbet
blackberry compote on a throne of chocolate mousse
a slice of seasonal pumpkin spice cake
all go to waste
other poets will fall at my feet
cover their cheekbones in cream cheese
for me to lay stale crackers on their noses.
We look up to her, I’ll teach you how
it works she says to the ram’s head, the birds eye
her mouth devouring snake heads