By Megan Riddell
hair like twine, wrapped around the thick of your throat? I’ll trudge my way to the backburner
but mother fucker you’re gonna simmer in these hand-hot waters beside me til our backs are
charred like the skin of salmon
that peels off like a Post-It-phone number that desperately clings to your computer monitor
with its last bit of stick
but then the ceiling fan blows as whistles blow as wind blows the smell of weed blows by the
blow-up doll that blows for free at the command of your pinky
ring fingers won’t command such things while soup cans in the pantry are this close to expiring
and coffee filters are used as toilet paper; which didn’t even exist on the day of signing the
Declaration of Independence and which will be celebrated
behind these red-velvet curtains, these blue-light screens, these white fingernails
typing typing typing without a single firework to fuck it all away.
Megan Riddell is a 28-year-old Creative Writing MFA candidate at The University of Central Florida, with a primary focus on poetry. In her free time, Megan devotes herself to attending concerts of punk-rock bands no one listens to anymore, building Lego towers with her daughter, Violet, and re-reading contemporary poetry from the 1960’s, by Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath.