sarah weck

American Baby
Orange in the streetlamp glow
too red I fold him
into the covers where he never tells me his real name
I’m fucking a myth
myth I’ll never stay the night in
I play with his
advertisements and he grows I’m pregnant with Baby’s baby,
the world catching fire
chrome-walled cherry pie
mirror shudders on the menu
chocolate strawberry pecan bleach
filling up the soapy tub
naked white paper burning in the stove
while flames eat our faces
like small animals fear is chemical
I know it doesn’t make sense babe
I’m sorry
I don’t want to show you the sky
or the pigeon’s nest over the shopping complex
bleeding into a neon call for truth
in Jesus but wait
show me the nest before the train arrives
scream my name in the yard before
my girls all hiss at you, intruder below
plastic strangling bits of our forest
a warm organ beats between my legs
pulsing out through the slit
of my thighs I mother
the invisible parallax
Lactaid and a trip to the library
morgue plastic and a warm whiskey
dove of a hand it feels good
to dress as an angel
it feels good to fold the quilt together
elaphine I think of all the ways
a body can decompose
Sarah Weck is a poet & sound designer/mixer from the dirty jerz living in brooklyn. currently writing with catapult and the cuny writer’s institute. Instagram: @sarahweck