Two Poems

<INCIDENT REPORT 426860>

they don’t tell you
everything goes polyester
red

cells
can’t keep up
cesium-137
permanently altering
molecular structure

ruby nuclei
rusted to the souls
of tiny wolf feet //////////////////

when i arrived
already there was
blood splashed onto
glass gauges
cracked spinning and spinning

the room had a pulse
throbbing and thick
warm like a childhood
bath

i didn’t mean to
but i ran home

i turned from the womb
and ran through shower
after shower
my usual route
stained
crimson footprints
a frantic dance pattern

i got on the bus winded
and soaking
puppies stashed in every pocket
cold noses at the base of my spine
and all places between

three days and 34 years
and i still look for their babies
in every dusty pothole


<choices>

holding hands w/
a wet wool
blanket (damp dog smell)
her chest packed
a museum of
arcane magic

converging wicker
ladders guide
husky throated goddesses
thru lead lined walls +
grand golden hallways

wrapped wrists bent
into obscene angles // i rejoice +
abandon influential stars
in favor of effortlessly beautiful
children unable
to cry


Sara Matson’s poems can be found in The Journal Petra, DATABLEED, Ghost City Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, electric grandma, is available from Another New Calligraphy and her chaplet, Forgotten: Women in Science, is available from Damaged Goods Press. Sara lives in Chicago with her rad husband + cats and Tweets as @skeletorwrites.