10/4 By Becca Hartman


i sit in the driveway
i melt into air
i howl at the moon and
hope that someone will hear. nobody taught me the proper way
to sew myself back up after cutting the dead things out.

the brown grass is getting taller–
the highway is almost covered–
it just won’t quit. it won’t leave well
enough alone.

i am cleaning myself raw for you.
i am digging the tweezers into my chest and pulling out crabgrass
for you.
didn’t you mother ever tell you not to play with dead things?
i am trying to make the clean incision but everything keeps pouring out.

please look away – i don’t want you to see.
i have tried very hard to board up the attic but the
termites keep chewing through the wood.

there are little pinpricks of light now – do you see?
in that one: the old rocking chair.
in that one: the mahogany trunk.
in that one: the boy who crawled inside and will not leave.

we don’t know how he got in here.
we are trying very hard to get him out.
in that one: the space between his feet and the wall
the dust forming quiet like snowfall
bonding to his skin.

By Becca Hartman


Becca is a college graduate from Buffalo, NY. She is a bookseller and barista due to student debt and volunteers at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Martin House due to love and admiration. Likes include historical nonfiction, French music, and the way the stars look at Joshua Tree. Dislikes include dairy milk and those averse to using turn signals while driving.

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