ISSUE TEN | SPRING 2018
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.
Lodestone
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
repelled,
repelled,
repelled.
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: suzifgarcia.com.