I sleep in a room with two beds. I sleep
angry. My mouth shrinks from the cold. Roaches
nest in my cheeks. Here I am: doorkeep to
my grandmother’s children. Possessor of
a dead lineage. I manifest as
my sister’s hard finger. As the virgin
in Pandemos. In your girlfriend’s brown eyes.
Here you are: daughter of the sewers. Eyes
blue from the wash. Step-girl with incessant
hair. I split your nails for my collection
of swords. For a late cold Sunday lunch. Two
beds—shall I pretend one is a couch? Is
the other half of mine? Is my ballot
cast white? I share: nosebleed. Eyes. Belly fat.
Now. Your turn.
IRIS is eighteen and a part-time Massachusetts writer. She has been previously published.
lemon yellow press 