Have you got a family? Are they well?
Shall I murmur the names of
refrigerator parts, shivering between my teeth?
Fixated on the format of my vitality:
cold-cracked lips, naive little fingers.
Lick up my leftovers. I keep you
under my bed – outside the confines of my self.
Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who organizes her dreams in her sleep and struggles with being fully present. Keep up with her work on Twitter.
Image by Jenny McDonald.