The Pseudomorph by Amy Alexander

What is this me you see
in the waves,
from ink so deep?

Swimmers with spears
or driving rain
bring her on.

She seeps from my center,
blossom minded,
mottled,
lacks maps
and swallows night shrieks.

She slips in, nutrient-dense, saying:

You are not what
you say you are.
You made a mess.
You should eat garbage,
you cheap
rubber
thing.

 

Amy Alexander is a poet, visual artist, and homeschooling mother living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, not far from the Mississippi River, which is very far from her hometown on the Colorado River, but still familiar, because of moving water. Her work has appeared most recently in The Coil, Cease, Cows, Anti-Heroin Chic, the Mojave Heart Review, Mooky Chick, The Remembered Arts, and RKVRY. Follow her on Twitter @iriemom.

 

 

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