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Suzi F. Garcia


Self-Medicating I


Roll out my ligaments, unwrinkled fibrous tissue,

     party ready. Tighten the filaments to punch out


a one-two step. Still, an entire room trips its tongue, marks me

     digitigrade (coyote style), though my toes never touch


ground. At mercy of the artificer woven

     into the curl of my hair, into the maze tunnels of my ear.


She promises empyrean, a false shaman plying

     my acceptance with tones of new milk,


fresh enough to make me believe. But she brings only vodka

     to clean cuts in my lungs, vessels and veins reaching out


like boughs. The sting doesn’t release my breath, but when eve begets

     day, I at last can wrap myself back in blankets


of keratin and mesodermal, and bed

     in my own nails.


I   stared    at   the   silver    doorknob   of   my   bedroom

today,   at   my   face   within   it—

    upside   down   &    far   away until


I   realized   I   was   that   cool   metal,

the   iron   in   my   blood   magnetizing,  

my   heart,   a   factory:   pushing   out   

heavy   beams,   the   kind   that   can   hold

the   weight   of   bridges,   that   bind   together

buildings.   My   arms   &   legs   tingled,

&   I   was

    floating,     drawn


to  whatever   was   pulling   me   up.

Beams   thudded   in   my   stomach—

still,   I   could   not   be   held   down,

a   balloon   released.   Yet,

as   weight    built,    I   understood:

I   wasn’t   moving   towards

anything,    only




Suzi F. Garcia is the daughter of an immigrant and an editor at Noemi Press. Her writing has appeared in The Offing, Vinyl, Puerto del Sol, and more. More available at:

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