by Michy Woodward
let the constellations flutter their expansive wings
from Georgia
my liver is sapphic, it drinks to feel alive
writhing in sobriety.
zoë said the bud light had an exorcism —
the way it exploded all over her sneakers.
exorcism as in exercising the right to be cursed!
yielding superstitious beliefs like matters of the heart
it matters to me, okay?
sticking chopsticks vertically in rice is sacrilegious,
my mom taught me that.
it symbolizes death
absolving admonition in afterlife.
ostensibly it’s gamine. it’s girlhood. it’s —
boyish and broken but not really believable.
cape cod
the arrival of pilfered memories at 2 am let the constellations flutter their expansive wings and multiply reflections of brackish time we concentrate on the buoyancy of winter beach and wander around as grief whispers sweet nothings into an exoskeleton of a half-eaten crab we talk about the etiquette of road head gleaming with the faded dayglow of expensive telescopes we forget the rage of high tide
© Michy Woodward
Michy Woodward (she/her) is a queer, mixed-race Asian-American Brooklyn based writer who runs a personal essay & poetry focused newsletter called Beat & Beatnik. Her recent work has appeared in Queerlings Magazine.
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