1.
Sweat slick.
Firm grip.
A knuckle carved trail
to an open mouth.
Silent oh,
but my god,
I’m sorry
for not calling
your name.
2.
Pop
as it often does.
The strength of
a cross stitch
against a loaded eye.
Tell my mother
of her handiwork,
of the holes
in the lining
she sealed
with warm milk.
3.
My cheek twitches
with the snickering
of an open fist.
Arms fight
their little hairs
curled into hooks.
My knees kiss
the pavement
and I hope
you greet me
just the same.
4.
No time now
to wait or thin out
like newspapers
at day’s end.
Find them.
Burn them
at my cold
cold
feet.
5.
Hard water.
Red sea.
Wait
thirty minutes
before swimming.
A ringing
in the ear
splitting tide.
I forgive you
for calling my name.
Evyenia Downey is a writer and poet from Toronto, Canada. She has an MFA in creative non-fiction from the University of King's College Halifax and a certificate in poetry from the University of Toronto. She write about relationships, identity, and mental illness.
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