bacon smell
comes into the
room spells
nostalgia all for me
i hoard the grease
for fat
and
pleasures
the exact opposite
of being told what
to do with a body
should’ve been
a burial we leave
it to the ground
almost like no one can
touch me but me
a crockpot of spindle
limbs her narcissism
my pharmakon
every flower i touch
i ask it, are you even fucking
real?
everything between
cause and effect
takes place in a
waiting room in
a hospital uptown
i’ve been there taking
pictures with the
sun going down to
document a truly
awful time
times
i’ll never claim for
myself playing my
soundtrack 2 life
she asks me how the
trains manage to never
crash, do they learn
from experience like we
do?
we never learned
i can’t speak for the
trains
the brim of earth
is a freeway going in
both directions ending
at the same bordered
blue velvet if anyone
had a guardian angel these
days i’m sure she would
sound like the alarm that
wakes me up
i don’t hear her
so i don’t wake up
too close to someone you
don’t know
a blast
of sound
and the dead star living with us
buried in us i paint myself in makeup
and cry about poor grades whilst
my god is becoming lucid in her cave
not in-style to take the
world seriously no one
on my street isn’t laughing
talk about weekend plans and
response under hypnosis a few drinks
and several late hours the
sky is laughing with us
i swear
and no one isn’t young and hollow
being struck like a bell
that’s just what a bell does
be struck
still
opened wide
i fall into myself like a stolen butterfly
folded into a book, i listen for what god
calls out to me when
i sleep
a heavenly creature
Megan Finkel (she/her) is a poet from Houston and student of comparative literature and Russian at NYU. She and her writing may be found occasionally on twitter @megfinkel.