Acetonic
by Ren Gay
I am afraid of the part of my brain that is responsible for categorizing
has placed violence and tenderness next to each other; done
nothing to stop the blurring—
erasing of the chalk line with spit.
There are craters inside the deepest part of a cavern,
my fingers come away covered in blood,
and never given enough time to dry.
Liquefied teeth overfill mouths, flowing freely,
dry tongue spitting out tubs worth of gesso.
No one has sneezed in at least two weeks. Silence is deafening.
We don’t realize how close blessings live in our mouths,
tucked under the tongue between two purpled veins.
If seasons passed and dandelions never turn to seed
how long would it take us to notice?
Would it be when the snow falls,
(either too early or too late depending on who you ask)
fields of yellow poking through white.
An ocean of self-contained suns burning straight through.
I used to love stories that imagine people surviving the apocalypse
but they feel mundane now; like checking the sky in the middle of desert.
The sun will be punishing and high overhead today.
When has it been any different?
Ren Gay is a lesbian, autistic poet and artist from Fargo, North Dakota. Her work has appeared in journals such as Anti-Heroin Chic, The Laurel Review, Qu Literary, Ghost City Review, Gramma Poetry, FreezeRay Poetry, Persephone's Daughters, and others as well as the anthology What Keeps Us Here.