by Lena Melillo
Lena Melillo is a law student, writing poetry mostly in secret. She lives in Cambridge with her dog, Louise.
The birds show up out of nowhere demanding a handout or maybe. Asking for a job. And bricked soil doesn’t so much part as crack wide. Picked ice and wealth, melt. Wives and strollers. Wives and wigs. A gloved hand on her Canada goose makes no sound. Like scentless wax and a spanking. Senseless. A temple to pills filled with art. Looted bones and wings pinned. Corked. The stuff poems are made of: bricks and bricks and bricks. With no train, I am. No feet either. Up a staircase erect and left: a scorpion bowl and a fistful of straws. Elbows knocked in a game of small plates. A contract, a limit. In this way I never finish the cake. I halve the slice then halve it again. Not to savor but. On a checkered floor, every other square a roach.
Take Care of a Shrimp Tail
Don’t let go to waste the shell of a thing
that is for all intents and purposes
the total sum of the thing
which is pink-
is sugar husk and
in the shape of its body and