A fish is choking
around my wrist, recreated
in hollowed rubies and synthetic
sentiments, sown into the inner layer
of my skin, the kind of thing
worn without question.
All about the way light catches off its scales,
none for the way my bones ring out in sympathy.
Across the sea of vespers and serenity,
just on the other shore, a gleaming satellite of glass
that orbits around the room daily,
twelve hours per orbit,
to the toilet.
A vacuum for the names and bodies that come with them,
the care each one prescribes:
shot of vodka & tomato juice
Amaretto (brand named, properly sourced) / a lollipop dipped in
to supplement the sweetness
a finger’s width of the clearest spring water,
the rest to be occupied by each stolen second
Anonymes III (A Dedication)
You are a shade of cleanliness I have not seen,
for which the Sahara was a warm-up
and a test-run in barrenness.
Not that you lack children
or those willing to claim heritage—star-studded,
mouth the same perfect O, the same ability to attract and orbit
(not a mutual movement of the partnership sort).
MARGARYTA GOLOVCHENKO is an undergraduate student at the University of Toronto whose work has appeared in various publications. She is also the author of the poetry chapbooks Miso Mermaid (words(on)pages, 2016) and Pastries and Other Things History Has Tried to Choke Us With (dancing girl press, 2017). A firm believer that she used to be a hedgehog in her past life, she can be found sharing her (mis)adventures on Twitter @Margaryta505.