Why can’t I just Botox
til I’m creamy and smooth
like the baby I don’t remember being —
a soft thing that spits up
and cries out, then stops
crying, knowing nothing
of interminable descents —
Me, I know everything about staring
with last-dash hope
at a spot on the sea’s horizon:
temples fuzzy, dizzy
when I stand. Me, I’ve had enough
of the kind of swell you don’t
choose, the kind that feels like a mean
God gave it, dropped everyone on one ship’s
radio station, and me, in between
channels. The mad static
curdles the frequency
while every signal shakes the boat.
Hannah Miet is a writer living in Los Angeles. Her work has been published in PANK, the New York Times, Newsweek, the Rumpus, the Naugatuck River Review, and elsewhere. She received her B.A. in Creative Writing from Hunter College and her M.A. in Journalism from the CUNY Graduate School of Journalism.
Comments