Sonnet for Scabbing
The flowers don’t give a fuck. They can’t fix this. Try to fight your skin
off. Imagine how good it would finally feel to be free
of its cling. Dig your nails in and see
what they can do, twist like tree limbs
before a summer thunderstorm. Remember
how they used to flow under your feet? It will never be
again. Not even drunk. Not even sleeping. You never used to go
too high. You don’t have to be alone. Do it
while everyone is watching. They won’t notice. Do it
better. Isn’t this what makes something beautiful? Stop torturing it
and the red turns brown. Doesn’t the grass make you itch? Don’t
the flowering trees make your eyes ache? Doesn’t your body fight
against everything that tries to love it? There is nowhere else
to put yourself.
Cricket Frogs
I used to cup secrets in the palms of my hands,
side by side with the little frogs we’d catch at the lake. I hadn’t learned
how to be afraid, my hands hadn’t filled up. I didn’t
allow myself to make mistakes and I was drowning
side by side with the little frogs we caught at the lake. I hadn’t learned
that only liars are perfect. Silver tongue never slipped up, couldn’t
allow myself to make mistakes. I was drowning,
I wouldn’t let myself tread, I was going down and I knew
that only liars are perfect, silver tongued, never slip up, couldn’t.
We used to roll down the hill of clovers into the pond but now
I wouldn’t let myself. I treaded, I was going down and I knew
I was still in the same place but I couldn’t be in the same summer.
We used to roll down the hill of clovers into the pond but now
I cup secrets in the palms of my hands,
I am still in the same place—but I couldn’t be. In the same summer,
I didn’t know how to be afraid. My hands hadn’t filled up.
Schuhplattler
Watch my dirndl bell out, I never let it
waver. I keep turning until the room becomes
forgiving colors and I am just another
body. Drag me into a waltz, I don’t care
who you are if you can be a focal point
in a kaleidoscoping room. The only hand I want
is the one I clasp across shoulders, if we hold on
tight we don’t need feet anymore. Tape a circle
on the floor and I will wind my way around
it. My fingers lose themselves in the lace
of the apron as it carries me from one end
to the other. Watch me smile empty. Watch me pretend
my eyes aren’t a mile behind. I rotate myself back
into the tan blurs of that tiled room, learn how
to revolve around a man again and believe
he will remember to catch me when the music shifts.
Sarah Brockhaus is studying creative writing at Salisbury University. She has poems published in The Shore and poems forthcoming in Ocean State Review. One of her poems has been nominated for Best of the Net. When she's not writing she enjoys playing volleyball and drinking coffee.
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