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THE MORNING AFTER THE ORGY
“How to capture in words the way you look with your head thrown back onto the pillow & the sun streaming in through the window the morning after the orgy …”
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the death of me
Death makes its presence known, arriving in a mood or a state. Unpredictable and unkind.
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AN EARRING
A butterfly clasp sits on the bedside table. Fluttering out from where it’s supposed to be and whispering the secrets it learned on the back of a lobe.
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Icebreaker
Coco seeks to break the ice and find what lies beneath the surface. “I like the raw relief of the skies spit – I don’t like exhaust melting down my spine.”
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Action potential
“I woke up from a very sweet—but also wildly revealing—dream with a gah in my larynx. Dreams, non-lexical utterances and brain analogies seem to be my primary modes of expression/discernment at the moment, especially when it comes to love. I’d rather just kiss them.”
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back into the sea
“One hot and cold summer I decide: In the name of my family history, I dedicate my life to becoming undone.”
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I am Drunk at Soul Shack Again
“You get asked why so many of your poems end that way. And you’re like, ‘oh, am I the vore girl? Is that my thing now?’ “
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Rinse and repeat
Taking inspiration from the line “rinse and repeat” in Tayi Tibble’s poem ‘In the 1960s an Influx of Māori Women’, Grace feels the hopelessness of life’s repititious activities, and the silliness of shrugging of life’s awfulness and getting on with it anyway.
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Like Walt Whitman, but Somehow Hornier
There is no way that Amanda Faye Martin is actually hornier than Walt Whitman (nobody is), but she’s still sort of in love with everything and so has offered this poem.
In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.
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