two poems by Breia Gore
WATER
makes me run away from absolutely everything / run away from absolutely everything / away from absolutely everything / absolutely everything / absolutely everything / the wave breaks and i am the dog / the plastic fork i pick up for the trash / i get it off the shore but i don’t recycle it / so what is the good / earlier that day we visited the aquatic museum with your sister / saw a live snake feeding / poor frozen baby chicks / poor snakes in a cool whip container / fuck the snake handler brought his son / his son is selling pokemon cards after the show beside the tip jar / fuck the snake handler is also a dominos delivery driver / fuck poor snake handler
water makes me run away from absolutely everything / run away from absolutely everything / away from absolutely everything / absolutely everything / absolutely everything / and when we hunted for ghost crabs later that night / and solved our own murder mystery / involving the grasshopper corpses flocked to the sand / fuck those grasshoppers skins were so flakey / fuck the group of teens putting the ghost crabs in buckets / poor drowning grasshoppers / poor ghost crabs with flashlights held up to them and their babies
water makes me run away from absolutely everything / run away from absolutely everything / away from absolutely everything / absolutely everything / absolutely everything / before the vacation was over / we sat on the porch facing the ocean / dropped my vape pen in between the cracks / climbed under the wood and rocks to get high / poor us / poor ocean / fuck we gotta return to our seats and head inside / fuck i looked the ocean in the eye / fuck where does it end
THERE ARE NO CHILDHOOD MEMORIES IN MY BRAIN, ONLY SCREENCAPS THAT LOOK LIKE HORROR MOVIE STILLS IN A VIEWMASTER
BIRTH: a woman cracks my mind open like a china cabinet, not a sky. somehow i can walk.
CLICK: there are two scars in the center of each knee, lingering in the background there is a cross and a miniature dollhouse.
CLICK: i am watching you drool through your gag at a slumber party on the railroad tracks.
CLICK: the train is going fast. two grown men eat dinner on the amtrak with me.
CLICK: underneath my aunt's desk, there i am hiding with an orange popsicle. i said the word groovy and was almost hit in the kitchen.
CLICK: all the stray cats i picked up like strippers. all the tragedies like chocolates separated in a cardboard box.
CLICK: this girl is forgetting how to breathe. she is sent to the shed with a broom to hit the wasps nest away.
CLICK: taking a shower to wash off the blood. when i am in my body, it is instantaneous. when i go out of my body, it is even faster.
october 8th, 2020Breia Gore is a writer and anarchist based in Colorado with her three cats and human partner. She is a journalism and writing student, editor-in-chief of THE HONEY MAG, and author of poetry chapbooks LEO, HOVERING (Bottlecap Press) and STUCK IN A GRAVE (VegAlc Press). A Pushcart Prize nominee, her work on the politics of the working class, morbidity, and trauma have appeared in Glitter MOB, Rogue Agent, Electric Moon Mag, Katitikan, and more. When she's not being a little punk, writing about her southern roots, or freelancing, she can be found online @gorebreia.