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.
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.
|
Remi RecchiaRemi 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 |