Rebecca Kokitus


I let the chlorine burn my hands / imagine the red turning white like a trauma victim’s hair / and I am the
world’s most secret trauma / I am a burial ground of rawness and heat

I imagine bleeding out from the core / like my period, but impatient / red swaddling cloth becoming
sunrise cloud reflection / and I’d float on my back, buoyant as a corpse

sitting in my sweat pool cesspool / film on the toilet seat / I watch a spider wrap up an insect like an
infant / I hear fireworks somewhere, a mile or two away / and there’s nothing lonelier than that

back to contents