Kissing Frogs

When I was in junior high we had to dissect a frog and my partner was “out sick” that day, so I had to peel the skin off myself and I knew I wasn’t strong enough to do it properly (I was a little slip of thing back then) since the only neat way to do it was quickly, forcefully, all in one go, with at least four hands, but since I only had my two one side of the green-grey sticky skin pulled up from the muscles faster than the other side so that formaldehyde splattered all over my cheeks and my dress and I remember the smell distinctly, it’s the kind of smell that burns right through the pores in your nostrils straight down to your bones, it stays with you forever, and anyway as soon as I felt the sticky, cold gel on my face I ran to the trash can and vomited profusely, which didn’t help the smell much, particularly since I still had half a frog skin in my hand and since the trash can was right in front of the teacher’s desk, where she was giving a demonstration on how muscles are controlled by electric pulses- I had to watch her rip the demonstration frog’s legs clean off his body (I knew it was a him because she accidentally ripped his little balls off too), right in front of me, while I was vomiting, and watching didn’t particularly help that situation either- anyways then I had to watch her stab the dismembered legs with stripped copper wires, making them dance like some vicious parody of ballet, spinning in small circles across the black tabletop like the pirouettes I practiced obsessively in my kitchen using the countertop as a barre and so now whenever I hear people talk about love I think about my junior high biology teacher, stabbing dead muscles with frayed copper wires just to watch them dance into some parody of living. 

When the dam breaks

Angelic things with broken wings

she sings the song while she’s dancing

Of silver bells and concrete shells 

and broken glass and waiting

Of fairy dust and cry-if-you-must

and hearts that have stopped their beating

Of elves in shoes and Baton Rouge 

she slides over mud while she’s cleaning

bits of things like fear and wayward tears

and running instead of just going

Of hopelessness and feeling less 

and worrying your unravelling is showing

Of angelic things with broken wings

she sings the song while she’s sobbing. 

Metus

There are colder places than this, I think

I have known them in past lives, in pieces of memories almost

forgotten save for the postcards taped behind the bedroom door.

I put things in boxes and fold things into drawers and 

tuck my failures behind my throw pillow, 

no one ever looks there. 

I hide old love letters in my collection of encyclopedias,

between the editions of BS and BV… there aren’t that many entries in BS

but it’s an old set. 

I vacuum every trace of dust and open every window to the morning light

but the air still feels musty and heavy with the weight 

of my terror. 

I paint my face and pack my bag,

My watch ticks and the four white walls grow bright and close,

I contemplate the doorframe and breathe only with difficulty 

I push and I shove but my feet disobey,

choosing prison,

people are monsters in the morning.