I can’t write a poem when I feel like
my organs are weightless, like the architecture of my
body would abandon me for the next best thing
awaiting my heart, liver, kidneys, skin bag, eyeballs
on the side of the road in a taped-up, prune-colored Subaru,
rushing to a drive-in diner that would close before my organs arrived.
The Subaru never came, and my body is packed with
lovely things that thanklessly keep me alive,
even when I pollute them with smoke or carbs or 7-11 vodka.
I make the same mistakes over and over again—
like expecting the diner to stay open past 3 or
blinking on purpose in every single photo or
dozing around naked in the family home or
spending hundreds on a vintage white dress that won’t fit.
I make these mistakes with a cherry in my throat,
flitting in love with every cute stranger
who remembers my eyes are brown,
that I’m from a random town outskirting a bigger, more random town
and that I was at that party last Saturday and
yes, my name is Jules (not really).
Julieanne Larick (she/her) is a Midwestern double Best of the Net-nominated poet. Her work has been recognized by the Academy of American Poets, Hollins University, The Young Writers Initiative, and AWP. She has writing in GASHER Journal, perhappened mag, Blue Marble Review, Kissing Dynamite, and more. Julieanne reads for GASHER Journal and edits fiction for jmww. She tweets: @crookyshanks. Find her work at http://www.julielarickwriting.com.
Eunoia Review 