A Bath

IMG_2376Soap slicks my ribs and you
Manipulate fingers to graze my breast
Underwater or above
We are suffocating our love
Without proper semantics to describe
The words of our sinking universe
Come under with me
Down here it’s too clouded to see
What lurks above the tub
A jealous lover watching, obscured
In the confines of your porcelain pool
We try to hold each other down
I know you can’t breathe darling but
Please, please stay because
He stands scythe in hand
Waiting for us to rise
To drain our blood
To give us a better word for love
Baptize me in your worries
Fill my cervix with your need
Before he grabs me by the nape and takes my whole body
Before the last of our breath bubbles up to the surface in a scream
Slick my skin in soap and cum
Lick my face of all he’s done
My bones ache in air
I don’t mind we cannot breathe
The reaper waits up there

Construction

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The ikea plants are staring again
I don’t think you’re supposed to water them
When’s the last time I actually watered
Anything
I’m thirsty
Everything inside me is drying
In two months I got more cavities than I’ve had in my life
never a single one before
I forgot to water my teeth

They’ve found me
The pounding starts around the Time I fall asleep
Construction workers keep better schedules
than I do
The drill pulls my soul through seismic shifts
My busted mouth rattles within its lips; A sin wave on the graph of a distorted face
My organs threaten to evacuate

What the fuck could they be hammering at, at 9 in the morning
Hammering my dull sockets into spasmic attention
I hope this won’t be like the ECT

My dad said the only side affect is sometimes participants have trouble making out words when

when

when

the ma -ma -ma -chicne is turned on

Can’t be worse than no sleep and teeth turning to rust
Not more difficult than a Mexican man at work rattling my metal cage right as I finally drift off
Blaring the mariachi station from his battery radio and signaling
“It’s time to wake the fuck up”
With his jackhammer in braille

The baloons of five east

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Days move like honey
At different temperatures
Hours can seep or flood
So spend time peering
At clenched fists
Seeking clues in the grease
Our palms secrete
Plump plum liver spotted fingers
Thick with booze, we ooze
Like milk or pus
By hypodermic needle prick
Our veins release balloons

We, the transient children of
nurses shifts and tired beds that suck the transdermal stick
Leave us be- we’re sicK

Dream 001

Black curtains droop
as only black curtains do
we drink to forget about the air, its absence
our own—ought to continue confusing affection with affliction if we want this to work out.
if I were a man I would probably take up a whore,  instead
my closest friends know the things I mutter in my sleep
Not a shame, not a dip too painful or deep
You were promises and hope and I am drunk,
awake, you shot my leg
the house we robbed glistened in pills
no, the house we were protecting was dressed in dollar bills
black clothes and rubber gloves
you were supposed to shoot the fucking door handle

my therapist says I wreak of betrayal and that everyone in my dreams is me
five times out of nine I’m polite enough to agree

III

III

my babies                                                             three of them
flushed                            down the drain,
I age

I am a maid           to my own wild arrow
sorrow swallows me whole

be it
in the belly or the soul         it is
just as easy

to take life

Pill or Punch
from coagulated blood and dust         I rise
my pigeon-like phoenix                        sopping in slime

I eat the carcass                              grow ill

I’m fine,

the years make rebirth more unreal,

but I am much less kind

Red Herring

 

Red herring
Quiet dead
Mouth open
Teeth (if red herring have teeth)
my cold fish
You
Hang limp around some foil
Well, we both do
Cold cold fish
Knees aching by three and
Shedding dry scales on some
Old man’s furniture
Let’s fill his lungs with us
Let’s hang him on the wall
Our red herring
Bones and flesh and foil

by Ana Mezic

Untitled Entry

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“Do they have you taking lithium now?” my mother asks.

Good morning to you too. My eyes would roll but she has a point —I couldn’t even complete the task of pouring her newest eastern remedy into a tablespoon without dribbling bits of purple nectar all over the marble counter. She sighs, tears a paper towel off its roll.

I woke up healthy enough after a week of bedridden illness to a batch of lesions bubbling up on my face. Impetigo is a skin infection most common in infants and toddlers. I’m sick twice a month at least. My immune system has its defects. Mom frets; scours the internet for magic potions to make them go away. My hands just fucking shake.

“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean you don’t think so?”
“I just take what they give me.”
Well are you bi-polar or depressed?”
“Uh…
depressed I guess. I don’t know.”
“Is that what you tell Dr. Ferguson?
“Sure.”
“Ok good, no lithium then. So what’s wrong with your hands?”

I down the syrup that made it into the spoon. It’s over-sweet, mouth now slicked with sugary slime. I think about smiling at my mom, letting the dark red syrup squeeze through my teeth, down my chin.

I meet her eyes once more, nothing like mine. I tell her I feel better already, kiss her cheek, turn towards the door. My vision is blurry, my face is blistering, my hands quake uncontrollably as I reach for the knob.

3 a m

3 a.m I am
sleeping
you, drawn
restless as
the birds
we  spied beside
the slough, frothing
at the mouth, or
tearing from
a dream, my words
only make it worse,
as hopeful as they seem.
3 a.m. is a fractured time
bones all poking out
if I angle the mirror just so
I can read the lines beside your mouth
in certain light
the sight’s enough
for me to need to
wash my hands
At 3 a.m.
you wake and
shift under the sheets
while the lines too faint
to understand
kick me in my sleep.

Seattle

In Seattle,
Clouds storm the port
racing horses cross the sound and down again
Oregon takes them in
rust eats
I get a full night of sleep on a drunk stomach
People have eyes as tired as anywhere
but I like them more
Cold bites the word home off my tongue and then my tongue itself is
gone
Steadily we take the state line
the Northwest licks itself all day like a cat in heat
Young men in sweatpants huddle, laugh
Seattle cleans up good
the men exchange money, tiny plastic balloons
Cargo ships sit thick, phallic in the bay
Clouds shower down on everything
and then they run away.

By Ana Mezic