self-portrait covered in molasses by Wanda Deglane
there’s a coral reef in my bedroom,
sharp things flying in through the window.
my hair the mousetrap and the gutters,
my skin tries to remember how to be skin.
i ache. i lung. i wormhole. i hold yesterday
in the minutes between my fingers,
the grape juice between my synapses.
i am warpath burning slow to the bone.
crawl my face back onto this skull, eyes dipped in gasoline. you say i was supposed
to leave half an hour ago. you stretch
hurry into eight syllables and i remind
myself to be impressed tomorrow. i remind myself of jewel beetle legs and girls in
bicycle lanes and moons made of balled-up taco bell napkins. i burst into rooms like
a half-drowned toddler and everyone
is staring. i say don’t worry these eyebags
are prada and stuff all my clocks inside.
the minute hand sneezes six times in a row and no one says bless you. the hour hand
has fallen in love with the sun.
september 10th, 2020Wanda Deglane is a night-blooming desert flower from Arizona. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and attends Arizona State University. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming from Glass Poetry, Cosmonauts Avenue, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere. Wanda is the author of Rainlily (2018), Lady Saturn (2019), Honey-Laced Garbage Dreams (Ghost City Press, 2019), Bittersweet (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2019), passionfruit (2020), and Venus in Bloom (Porkbelly Press, 2020).