<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.