Poetry By Rachel Turan

      Ross Griff CC




Atone 

Memory mnemonics expunged, my own repellant
then-heart    floating.   I    exchange    baggage   for
reverence, obscure my weights. I am not proud to
be like Kurt’s Bergeron, but sullen, I sprout robes.
There is a memory card in the basement with the
face of someone I once kissed. I shed calcified tub
water, tangerine skin.  I am soft apple rot  bottom.
My   own   jaw    clenched,  a   change  agent   lying.
Activate     marionette      banter      and     bacteria,
obfuscating  walks  that  I  don't  take.    The  way I,
unlike  God,  hold  embittered  pain. I sprang  from
beings whose psychic  paths  spread  out  in  webs
from mine and  wonder,  how  close  they  were to
crossing      back       and       reigniting      exuberant
relation?

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Rachel Turan creates digital art for a nonprofit and writes music and poetry for her sanity in the forgotten wilds of New Jersey (Lenapehoeking) Her work has been published in Alexandria Quarterly Press, Toho Journal,  and Bee House Journal. 
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