WHY A SILK SCARF IS THE ULTIMATE SUMMER ACCESSORY
dear world,
I don't even know
a silver tray of cigarettes
a brutalist home underwater
wanting to be held down
hole in this poem
gnawed by moths
what gives
what gave
it's thrilling
how long a long long time can be
the sun setting beyond the boat
that my baby calls a boat
a raven's muscle
making rain
I roll around in a circular motion
my hooped mouth
a coupe
dried orange adrift
a bird of course
I was supposed to be bones
crossing over water
which had become a different water
a grand woman in a grand penthouse
a friendly plastic bee sitting on a plastic cloud
to lie like a shard in the oracle’s mouth
to wash up on another's shore
I hear the phone rattle
my baby cry
watch a woman cycling through Kyiv
shells like hands
one day you wake up and no wind moves
one day you wake up and find out you are you
green trees
ordinary sky
moss
as moss
you look backward
feel something shear inside
it's the term of the
sale
having a body
where air should be
SO…IS THE WHITE PARTY STILL ON?
Apollo faintly touching my brow
Helen’s sandal breaking the dust
butter yellow
the color of the season
I dream war is beginning
to tender
augury and tangle
rising up
from whatever is doing the living
children with pans begging for soup
photos of legs that are no longer legs
my baby filling a green Walmart bucket
to stick her feet in the green
Walmart bucket
the shallow V-line of particulars
a new draft
one receipt
tub clogged with hair
orecchiette needing oil, salt
I touch my face contoured into
an image of a face
red wine sediment
manipulated shadow
for survival
I come apart in the washer
omen enough
in my apartment
I grow into
the greater part of a cloud
something awful beginning
where the floor gives out
Stevie Belchak is a writer, poet, and editor of blush lit. She lives in San Jose, Costa Rica. More of her writing can be found at steviebelchak.com.