SHIRLEY JACKSON SAYS THAT WE WOULD BE
HAPPIER ON THE MOON
and I’m inclined to believe her | because someone told me that I’m alarming like a blood stain |
the kind you find on white carpet | or that bleach cannot vanquish without some reminder | and it would be better | kinder | to make a home out of dimples pressed into the surface | sliding across
a field of togas and unblemished spaces | without that consequence lingering | I think I’m thrilled by the idea of it all | of joining a bit of everything | curled into spaces between stars.
my partner sleeps
half dragged by golden
sand to reveal critters
from within, each
presenting a fistful of
teeth, tuffs of hair lifting
under scraps of lace, all
to emerge from recycling
bins past the door, moving
over bone of the chicken carcass,
pulling fortunes out of their shapes,
with only an imprint of grease left-
eventually they will migrate into
an ecosystem designed from dog-eared
books and curated stolen pens, each
discarded by a stray wishbone, rustled
bed sheets, a wistful smile half made.
Rachel Small (she/her) writes in Ottawa. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in magazines, including Thorn Literary Magazine, blood orange, The Hellebore, The Shore, and other places. She was the recipient of honourable mention for the John Newlove Poetry Award for her poem “garbage moon and feminist day”. You can find her on twitter @rahel_taller.
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