by Marit Ericson

Heard love’s through
with my esophagus,
gulp. My mind shakes
around, I don’t know.
An itch is hiding up
a sleeve: maybe mine,
maybe hers, or maybe
Houdini was onto
something. I couldn’t
fake fun again, after
you. I’m about to turn
into a maze. You’re
back where anything
could have happened.

Marit Ericson is a graduate student at Rutgers University. She likes sad movies and clever comedians, as well as clever movies and sad comedians, and music. If you see a strand of oaks in a yard and said oaks make you happy once in a while, you are probably okay in her book. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Quarterlife Quarterly and other venues.


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