Ariana-Sophia Kartsonis


If you ask whatís become of me
I have to point to a stranger
on the street and say if thereís prayer left
inside that body
itís blue-skinned and shaky
itís dog-eared and barely breathing.

If thereís a way out make it magenta
and shrill, tearing at the upholstery.

At night, when the trees are mascara
sketches against a weeping sky,
I fingerpaint on a rented wall.

And you, I know what you mean,
every old-time barbershop wounds me,
the poleís warped twisting,
the red stripe that never escapes,
the invisible knife, a spiral of apple skin
falling away and away.

Location: Tuscaloosa, Alabama
Occupation: Teaches literature and composition at the University of Alabama
Publications: Absinthe Literary Review, ACM, Denver Quarterly, Mississippi Review, Optic, Third Coast, Slope, etc.
Editor of: Words on Walls

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