by Anastacia Stevens


sometimes when I sit down to write a poem
I walk home instead because
I am tired of being clever
and wrestling my joy to the ground

I felt the same way when I once
called a boy to tell him I was in love
even if the economy of words was dead–
the conversation ended abruptly

I never heard from him again
but it was no mystery why he left
I wanted too much, too soon
and never had enough self-discipline
for an addiction or to
nurture the sweetness of
my very own tongue


when I think of love
I see my mother packing
up the kitchen into see-through
plastic containers so she
can more clearly observe
their depletion–
we grieve in similar ways

because, if I were to think of
the compartments of my body
as a poem your name would
be written legibly across their limbs
lighting them up like octane

they want to belong to you
and who am I to stop them?

1 thought on “Poetry

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