curls of thick gourd flesh how they coil to shivery light
when I cup them in the blades of somebody’s hand, hands, hands,
fingers, neck joints, tendons, roots: how I shelter them in these precious
objects, how I stick and shove them down my own throat
like it’s a place where things will stay longer, maybe
even forever: let me light a candle and stuff and shove
it into a glowing ribcage, a lantern which holds light only
by the slender architecture of slim wings and tenements of orange wires,
pillars and buttresses of mucous light hardening to wax or solid
glory, empty praise: how they found a human leg outside my old high school
white and placid as stiff, snaily bone, even though I told them
there was no way it could be mine this time of year,
people wear masks over their eyes to make you forget
they, too, resemble human iterations, I, too, am a little devil:
itchy eyes and penetrative claws— I don’t recognize myself in mirrors
or in how slim worms soften up and die on the undersides of leaves,
this time of year, we pick them twisted and fleshy like scallops
or egg pastries off crunchy, onion-cell leaves or whatever
it’s called when it sticks to my teeth. I want to be bulwarked
by deep, rainy nights with endless capacity for darkness:
I want to stay awake for years just so I can sleep it off
curls of thick gourd flesh how they coil to shivery light when I cup them in the blades of somebody’s hand, hands, hands, fingers, neck joints, tendons, roots: how I shelter them in these precious objects, how I stick and shove them down my own throat like it’s a place where things will stay longer, maybe even forever: let me light a candle and stuff and shove it into a glowing ribcage, a lantern which holds light only by the slender architecture of slim wings and tenements of orange wires, pillars and buttresses of mucous light hardening to wax or solid glory, empty praise: how they found a human leg outside my old high school white and placid as stiff, snaily bone, even though I told them there was no way it could be mine this time of year, people wear masks over their eyes to make you forget they, too, resemble human iterations, I, too, am a little devil: itchy eyes and penetrative claws— I don’t recognize myself in mirrors or in how slim worms soften up and die on the undersides of leaves, this time of year, we pick them twisted and fleshy like scallops or egg pastries off crunchy, onion-cell leaves or whatever it’s called when it sticks to my teeth. I want to be bulwarked by deep, rainy nights with endless capacity for darkness: I want to stay awake for years just so I can sleep it offcurls of thick gourd flesh how they coil to shivery light when I cup them in the blades of somebody’s hand, hands, hands, fingers, neck joints, tendons, roots: how I shelter them in these precious objects, how I stick and shove them down my own throat like it’s a place where things will stay longer, maybe even forever: let me light a candle and stuff and shove it into a glowing ribcage, a lantern which holds light only by the slender architecture of slim wings and tenements of orange wires, pillars and buttresses of mucous light hardening to wax or solid glory, empty praise: how they found a human leg outside my old high school white and placid as stiff, snaily bone, even though I told them there was no way it could be mine this time of year, people wear masks over their eyes to make you forget they, too, resemble human iterations, I, too, am a little devil: itchy eyes and penetrative claws— I don’t recognize myself in mirrors or in how slim worms soften up and die on the undersides of leaves, this time of year, we pick them twisted and fleshy like scallops or egg pastries off crunchy, onion-cell leaves or whatever it’s called when it sticks to my teeth. I want to be bulwarked by deep, rainy nights with endless capacity for darkness: I want to stay awake for years just so I can sleep it off
Vera Hadzic (she/her) is a writer from Ottawa, Ontario, currently studying English and history at the University of Ottawa. Recently, her work has appeared in flo., Minola Review, Idle Ink, and elsewhere. She can be found on Twitter at @HadzicVera or through her website, www.verahadzic.com.
