Ross Griff CC
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
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.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.