re: wearing my glasses after a life of blurred vision

after Eika L. Sanchez

in the year of the pig
I was lethargic, barely peeking
and unnoticeable. I made my mother
scream before she understood me, I reached out
a pinkie from the womb but was too lazy to grow
a fingernail so she never felt the itch
that I was coming. I never knew pain. I only
soaked deeper inside her. if I called you
a fragile being, would that be such a bad thing?
like the glass sphere of a snow globe that’s been shaken
too much and always in a flurry. am I angry
or just dehydrated. I stare at my ceiling until my eyes
dry out while “Landslide” absorbs my brain. I thinkIthink
the year of the snake would have been more suitable
for me, a gemini, as my vision races through the memories
of every beginningand end andbeginningand endand
beginningandend of where I thought
my father’s last straw might be. if I squint hard
enough, the corner of my ceiling reminds me I was once
born a street dog, tiny enough to be picked at first glance,
but the other night I lay sostill I could see my mother
humming happily like she never knew me and my finger
bones grew into my skin as the ceiling grew a big toothy
smile and laughed and laughedandlaughedandlaughed
at me. I could never be a goat. I do not eat enough
vegetables, I am not big enough, strong enough, I am
too awake at night collecting the fallen strands of my hair
scattered around the bed. they grow as fast as I shed. I scare
myself. Iscaremyself. I am the rat. I became what I was born
to be, what I feared. if I told you I loved you, would you unmask
the mesh of dyed thread that absorbs me?

Catalina Adragna is twenty-three years old and pursuing an MFA in poetry at Rutgers University, with an undergrad at Bennington College where she studied Poetry and Drama. She has previous publications in Silo Magazine. She is a Gemini and a pocha. Her Twitter: @catadragna.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.