She went to the river to remember God,
ribs replaced with the western wall,
heart an invocation pleated between them.
Her night terrors are blurry as birth
she wakes up calling every name in the Old Testament.
She applies lipstick staring into the blunt part of a paring knife;
she is made of flat champagne and seasonal allergies.
Her mother used to cut her hair with sewing scissors,
cross-stitched her carotid
took a tuck in the optic nerve.
She ellipses between boys with watches that stop working once a week;
protesting the redundancy of dusk,
she confuses her own arms with Saturn’s rings.
Her heart is a satellite, glitchy and gleaming.
The velocity of solitude leers.
She wakes up early,
scribbles her number in the space dust settling on his nightstand.
Laura Ingram is a tiny teen with large glasses. Her poetry and prose have been featured in thirty-three literary magazines, among them Gravel, Moledro Magazine, Allego Poetry Magazine, Cactus Heart Press, If and Only If, NoiseMedium, and Assonance Literary Magazine. Laura is a creative writing student and infrequent freelance editor. She loves Harry Potter and Harry Styles.