4 poems by Teagan Nelson

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the sight of my lips pressed against: the bite

in an apple; the curve that valleys

from forefinger to thumb; the plump

of two fingers closed in the form of a gun.

pure smut

 

i would say that movies make it out

to be electrifying, sparks connecting

from tongue to tongue

but i wouldn’t know. i didn’t look.

hands that hammered, nailed, painted

coarse and bigger than my own

covered my eyes

 

and shut my mouth.

 

 

the time he kissed me

for practice

there were no sparks.

i didn’t look.

 

 

in tenth grade: practicing in the bathroom mirror

craving intimacy

hoping sex would be the answer

then blaming the emptiness on sin

held in rough hands, poured over my head in baptism

knowing god must be a man

                           with how he hurt me

 

 

detached

 

i stared into dead sockets to practice

my sincerity for you, on hands and knees

dirt embedded in flesh, in blood

now browned and blackened molasses

 

took hold of this cadaver

bones sewn together with spit and sinew

         gruesome as when it was born

 

laid in a manger

i scrubbed it with gloved hands

the way you once scrubbed me raw

in that mildew glazed tub

as an act of pure, selfish love

 

and cradled the bones marked

by bits of fur i couldn’t remove.

day after day, slowly replacing

my skeleton with

the rabbit’s

 

 

 

 

 

visitation weekend

 

and so I return here

this image in my mind, of us two

sitting in folding chairs, plastic fibers

stretching to their breaking point

 

you’re staring off into the distance

and I’m watching you watch the sky seep

that crisp blue, molecules burning

until the ash falls past the clouds

onto the horizon line

 

the gnats are feasting on my knees

through the thinning patches of denim

sewed once over, then tossed

 

in this moment, it’s just us

and I count my breaths in measure

every inhale, every jar of burning sky

saved on a shelf in my bedroom

 

you point out the heron glinting off

the lake’s reflection, and when I turn to look

the fibers snap.

I grip the metal of the folding chair

leaving soft indentations in my wake

 

 

 

 

 

wudu

 

i, fourteen, face wet

prostrated on a coffee stained mat:

oh god, my god, let me understand what love is

so that when a man picks me from our

dying crabapple tree, that I may lay

in an unkept pool

blanketed in the corpses of wasps

 

skin slipping

eyes, tongue, nails purple

floating face down until

i can no longer hold my

breath

 

and then,

let the chlorine leak into my lungs

and cleanse me

i can handle this

just thirty seconds more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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