sarah weck

Untitled design_edited.jpg
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