unsure about dinner,
i lick the walls
in-touchable: a spot u cannot scratch without help
the corner of vision that hides
leftover stain let the cells flourish,
skin, nails, proteins (moles removed)
little synapses + larger systems
humming my blood to each growth
sweetly efficiently
or even more like
thumbing elegant crown molding like my own body
press the doorbell inside my molar
dust the back steps for strays
i shift orbs of garbage from my hip to the alley
maybe, it’s actually
more like singing thru the damp
bathroom door, enjoying the solidarity
with bone + dense showerwater
not a dream, but
an expectation (to awaken)
lacquered cigarette butts jingling
musically at my wrist
i pause + make ur body smell
like mine for a few minutes,
but u say it’s been days
home alone i spit my name
just to see where it sticks + slides,
ceramic wall gathering
moisture inside my shoe
+ on the defunct receiver
do we bring it back to the notepad ?
by notepad i mean mountain
(no, i’m explaining)
ache begets ache, like loss
like cigarettes
being told house sparrow secrets
(red throated whispers)
being told of course there’s a chocolate fountain !
little smokey headache babydoll
don’t silly silly
obviously, you’ve disturbed me
in the frunchroom, burning at
the stake absent-mindedly
smelling my own tongue
angry at the gift
of age
lace curtain withdrawal
i find the cardboard right
where u left it
goodness shatters like glass
but they don’t tell u when
u keep a stash in ur pocket
.Sara Matson (she/her) is a poet in Chicago and host of the seasonal online reading series Words // Friends. Sara's poems can be found in Discount Guillotine, The Chicago Reader, Bone Bouquet, and elsewhere. Her microchap, NOSTALGIC FUTURISM, is available from Pity Milk Press and her chapbook Special Features: DVD Poems is available from Alien Buddha Press. Find Sara on instagram @skeletorsmom or Bluesky @saramatson.bsky.social
