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In the Case of Bedclothes

I only sleep when I’m alone
and the mirror can’t read me
and when I can control
my breathing, which is never,
and when the tree-creaks
don’t bother me too much.
My pulse is an orange, glittering
and strange in a veined Adam’s Apple.
Its voice is dependent on the decibels
outside of itself.
Which rots first, the skin
or the peel?

*

Ladybugs stitch crusts for themselves
under my bed. They are lazy and late
to everything; I am scared and late
to most things.

*

A metal hanger is kissing the doorknob.
My eyes are kissing the hanger. Everything
is always kissing

*

The light switch said goodnight
ten years ago. I didn’t wave
back, and now it rests without me,
birthing black light SOS constellations.

I cried the first time I saw a mother
molding small hands into mittens
because it was beautiful and because
the hands weren’t mine.

*

An orange jumpsuit hangs in the closet
without a mannequin, crumpled
and stilted like cheese in case my case
comes up. It told me once that it washed
itself; I pretended to believe it

because who knows, really,
what a thread count can do.

Picture

Remi Recchia

Remi Recchia is an MFA candidate in Poetry at Bowling Green State University, where he serves as Assistant Poetry Editor for the Mid-American Review and teaches first-year writing. His work has appeared in or will soon appear in the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, the Old Northwest Review, Blue River Review, Front Porch, Gravel, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Ground Fresh Thursday Press, among others.

Twitter //
 @steambbcrywolf

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est. 2018
  • Home
  • ISSUES
    • Issue One
    • Issue Two
    • Issue Three
    • Issue Four
    • Issue Five
  • Submit
  • Contact