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A Grocery Store In The Middle Of A Pandemic

I walk on spongy moss, orchestral in its brilliance,

It sings as heels clatter on top of the

Nature as white as linoleum,

And the mushrooms growing between my toes

Tell me there is something wrong with this bog.

I want to reach for the mushy peaches and rotting apricots

Hanging from dancing tree limbs, a dionysus away,

I want to suck on the plums’ intoxication.

Instead I place them, delicately, in crinkled plastic,

In the suffocating machine,

In the nature killer,

In the thing that strangles the frogs.

It is cold here.

It is dead, pinkish flesh behind glass tanks,

The periwinkle scales of the saltwater swordfish

Skinning me, raw, rubbing salt and paprika, and

dried basil in the wounds. It is cold here. It is 68 degrees.

I want to start taking my baths in the lobster tank.

I want to glow red, rubber between my fingers, clenched in permanent fists

Not strong enough to break the glass. I want to be

Hardbacked and sought after and sold for $14.99 each.

I drape myself in the gemstones, softly misted every hour on the hour,

Rutabaga on my clavicle,

and peppers in my hair

And carrots behind my ears,

And the mushrooms that grow between my toes whisper,

And point me forward, towards the doors that open

Into the real world. It is warm there. It is not stale bakery donut scented.

It is not hard moss floors, it is real moss floors

Where the lobsters want to take baths in the ocean with the swordfish.

It is warm there.

-s.m.

I lay under a yellow comforter

During scalding red July moons,

Hoping that the trail of sweat

Tearing away at the flesh behind

My rubber knees, will eviscerate,

Evaporate, alienate the brewing

Turbulence of lungs breathing

Carbon monoxide, suffocating

In clouds of root beer flavoured nights

Where the moon is too big,

And my aorta is too big,

And my lungs are too big,

And I hope the blanket burns them all away.

Gertrude and Winnifred

a poem

Let’s not make compromises.

Let’s not tear the petals of off forget-me-nots.

Not tear the pollen away from daisies.

Until the bees are left dead. Drenched in

Dehydration. Dredging up drops of doubt

In the hair on their Legs. Thorax. Abdomen.

Abdominal muscles. Abs. Washboard. Firm

Under hands. Delicate. Porcelain.

Unable to reach. Unable to feel every

Bump and crevice. Every imperfection.

Every compromise riddling a body. An

Abdomen. A thorax. A bumble bee without a

Stinger. A compromise that will never be mine.

-s.m.

I’ve Never Been A Big Proponent Of Breakfast For Dinner.

I’ve long since longed to be seduced by the honey lilted, sunny tilted

Face of morning— bare skin smeared with marmalade acne, dribbling bits

Of crumbs in the jar, oh, with lips glazed like the scent of cinnamon rolls

Dripping with clotted cream, I awaken from a dream, the rooster cries,

I rise, using tied up spots of sunrise to butter the skillet for my eggs.

Scrambled. Never sunny-side up. Never yolks runny. Chamomile and

Lack-of-chaos in my teacup. Never coffee. Never caffeine. The biochemistry

In my brain, normal, every gene indicating full alertness, natural pertness,

I wouldn't have to shower away my introvertness just to feel clean interacting

In a world where I exist with the sole intention of returning to my sheets.

I’m allergic to sunscreen. It’s been encoded in the hypersensitivity of my epidermis

To fear the damage, to love the sloth, the sin, the sun might sear my skin, sizzling like

Butter on a skillet, flesh bubbling like fried eggs. Stinging, acidic as orange juice.

Burning, like lying on the floor, ingesting loose cereal and beer for a breakfast

Eaten after the sun has already gone down, and I think this is what death must feel like.

Eighteen hours a day, eyes closed, stuffed nose, not even awaking to the smell of burnt

Toast. Why can’t I fucking wake up? Stand up on my legs? Lie to myself? Fry some eggs?

Oh, don’t you know I wish I wasn’t nocturnal? But only spring can be vernal.

The day is not eternal. Sleep slips into the water I sip to survive. I'm alive. But not really.

We grow in our sleep. And a growing girl can’t live on just eggs, alone.

-s.m.

She Is The Epicenter Of My Mind

I think The Apocalypse would taste like berries.

Maybe a beratement of blueberries, like the

Dye in her hair-- or maybe it would taste like

Stains of strawberry smirnoff-- the smear

Of cherry lipstick. It would taste like hangovers.

Like Hiroshima. Devastation, desolation, drinking

Chaos from a cracked crystal glass. I bet

She would taste like kissing a hurricane head on.

The arteries in my cardiovascular system

Are strewn with radioactive, lovesick debris.

I wonder? Should I choose to fling the fallen skyscrapers

Into my soul? To shovel the smoking ash of

A forgotten civilization into my lungs? Do I

Liquify destruction and shoot it into

My veins, wholly, entirely, life-ruiningly

Embracing the End of the World?

I’ve got my emergency supplies stored in the

Basement. Batteries and water and whatnot.

Safety. Ways to willingly survive the fallout.

But I think… If she asked me to… if she

Flashed me one glint of her chemical fire smile,

I would let it all burn. One reverberating echo of

Her nuclear laugh, and I would happily succumb

To the poisoned berries, growing on her lips.

-s.m.

Sun Spots and Cavities

You smile the same way

The light streams in from my window every morning,

With a hushed golden glow as delicate

As the lace of my mother’s wedding dress.

But with a strength, a resilience, so determined

To awaken me from my blind slumber stupor,

To shine through the translucence of my eyelids,

To invade the dreams that have imprisoned my mind,

To make yourself known,

With haphazard teeth that hold

A beauty, a power, a fission vs fusion

Technology that no scientist can seem to recreate,

Your teeth, pearl white, shining

As lovely as wild daisies.

And lost in your ambiance I know

I would trade all of my dreams and all of my sleep,

I would pry my eyelids open, slowly, one at a time,

Ignoring the discomfort of dry, bloodshot eyes,

I would turn the brightness of the sun up so far

As to fry the earth,

For one morning,

One sun streamed gaze,

Of your smile.

-s.m.

Little things that make you smile

Excitement, to me at least, tastes like the buds

Of newly grown leaves on old decrepit house plants.

The ones who’s terra-cotta pots have become chipped

And stained with dirt and years of love pooling in the

Bottom amongst the filtered water.

Love, to me at least, sounds like the grass growing

On hills and valleys, in and between cement cracks

On the sidewalk. A plush carpet given to the earth

So that we may set our feet upon the highest of luxury

As we live, as we walk, as we love.

Joy, to me at least, is the hollowed out amplification

Of sound waves ricocheting through the water filling

The deepest part of a blue titled hotel swimming pool,

The slowness acting as noise cancelling headphones,

Alighting me to the wonders of chlorine.

Peace, to me at least, is the royal crowns atop Maple

And Oak trees in the summer, when the sun changes

The tops of their heads from hues of emeralds to

Gold, solid and pure, the colour of the laughs of the

Children, playing underneath.

Life, to me at least, seems to be wholly, entirely, regretfully,

Taken advantage of, ignored in every conceivable way.

From the glint of the scales of the rainbow trout, to the

Scent of cheap white farmers market soap. There is beauty,

Even if one has to seek it out.

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my lips are far too chapped,

why would you ever want to kiss them?

This Is Why I Hate Dating Apps

We’re always right to ourself.

That’s a little fact that no one seems to realize

Blurs the lines of the empathy

That should theoretically

Be engrained within us all.

What gives a person the right

To decided who is a person?

Like when I swipe left on tinder

Evaluating a being’s soul,

A human’s entire existence

From one photo,

Or two on a generous day,

And deciding that, to me at least—

No—

They are not a person.

But all of this still,

With all the non-people in the world,

Why do we feel like we only have meaning

When someone else has infiltrated our life?

I look at the lights and I think of you,

Cityscapes scattered with harsh yellow

Glowing factory lights filtered by smog

And disillusionment. They imitate the stars

They’ll never see with inanimate

Eyes that shine like the moon

Phases that my manic episodes

Mimic. It’s 2:00am and you are in purple

And I am in blue and in love and in utter

Denial about the way my life is flowing

Like the river under the bridges next to

Those factory lights and then in my mind

There’s you again.

-s.m.

Do not fear the broken heart,

Instead, dive into Love headfirst.

I’ve always felt sympathy for the way shark’s teeth

Painfully protrude from their gums.

Do the sharks cry, I wonder?

From the razor sharp bone ripping and cutting

Through soft pink tissue?

They have hundreds.

Thousands.

Millions of teeth,

Pouring down their throat,

Covering every crevice inside their mouth,

An endless cycle of baby teeth

Tied by thread to a door handle,

Being yanked,

Being replaced,

One after the other,

One after the other

I wonder if they would like braces?

Or dentists… or orthodontists?

Do they cry when teeth

Are ripped out of their mouths,

Torn apart from the fearsome bone of their jaw?

Do they whimper in fear,

A suppressed sound floating like bubbles

In the endless ocean of pain they swim in?

Do they hate the sight of shark tooth necklaces?

Like the ones my ex would wear,

Covering the hollow of his throat.

The soft fleshy part

Where teeth could easily rip apart.

Do they see it as some kind of taunt?

“Your tooth is at my sternum,

My jugular,

My heart.

Your tooth is at my neck, but it may never bite down.

And it will never bite down,

for I have ripped this tiny pearlescent limb

From your very mouth.”

I wonder if this could make the sharks cry.

She’s my Michigan,

She’s my yearning,

My chest pain, heart burn,

Young love, returning.

She’s my Washington,

She’s my longing,

My glazed eyes, headstrong,

Future dreams, prolonging.

She’s my Nevada,

She’s my pining,

My locked love, hotline,

Soft jaw, skin shining.

She’s my Iowa,

She’s my hoping,

My butterflies, elope,

First kisses, new groping.

There’s a grayness to life.

A harsh, stark, contrasting, monotonous

Brash, all-consuming, intensity

Brought from the heart beat blade of dull silver.

It’s the gray of the gears of the mechanisms

Of the camera capturing meteorites

And memories

I don’t even remember wanting to keep.

There’s a grayness to life.

But, if one simply remembers

To not overexpose the photographs,

Then sometimes

Bits and pieces of colour

Can shine through.

-s.m.

Can the words “thoroughly enamoured” encapsulate

The physical presence— the chaos of biology—

I feel in the hollow cavity inside my rib cage

When your honey glazed eyes catch mine?

-s.m.

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