Poetry,  Published Submissions

that one february

I wanted to crawl into your bed, 
dye my skin yellow. 
Imprint my blood in your final days, 
discombobulate my bones with lost control. 
Leave my encephalon convoluted in toxins, 
hallucinations.


We compare our hand sizes. 
I prop your hand against universes 
to hold it. 
You have left ring stains as mundane, 
your nails decaying from vinegar, 
boiled broccoli water. 
Testing the salt level each time. 
Reaching into pans to test warmth, 
I believe you thought 
nothing was to be trusted.


          Except on Fridays, 
you trusted Carole King, 
that tectonic plates shifted to her step, 
your voice, 
which created bows with our arms 
at every vocal. 
Joni Mitchell, 
that your hair would grow to hers, 
maybe bangs will cut themselves. 
Joan Osborne, 
that a vielle would reverberate 
each time you entered a room, 
oh to see I nap beside you.

— Capra McCormick