an Aotearoa poetry journal | ISSN 2744-3248

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abecedarian in sleet

Massachusetts, December 2014

around town, they have hung
brilliant, twinkling
cells, pulsing lights like jellyfish who don’t know they are
dead.

every endless night an itch, and my
father calls me up first time this decade to know if I’ve been a
good girl.

haiku hangover mourning after midterms:

brain fog happening
sentences not happening
synapses in mud

invisibility: my latest superpower when you enter to say

just
kidding
again

looking at everyone but me. we were a cryptic
myth when we began, but such a good one, the kind you’d want to swallow whole, and hot.

no longer a story,
only floating characters, we shiver on pieces of once
quilted promises, cloaked in ripped sheets, we taste stained, nearly
rotten.

sweaty pits, streaks of grey sun,
the kind of beauty that stings.
under the only lights, fluorescent (those
violet cells still beating), gutters still fill with grimy
white diamonds. still unsure if it’s me or you or your new
Xanax pills building the clear quicksand wall between, except then
you tell me you think maybe
zoos aren’t so bad, not really like prisons, except for the metal, and when their heads hit the concrete—