In my head, I weigh down pockets with stones in exchange for the clearing
of chrysanthemum fields.

I stuff petals in my ears, I drown the world out, I just want to hear honey.

To stay as high as I am, I beg long enough that my molars stop breaking
through the glitter. There is no room for soaked sheets.

Sometimes the angels gossip about the feathers in my hair. I cannot
remember the last time something I swallowed stayed put.

Wait to hear a pin drop, for the fat to keep me warm. This sweet-toothed
jabber too loud.

I tuck into a new gown. It brushes the floor, I am floating. Buttons scallop
the skin—zippers indent my back like an opening paragraph.

Say thank you for freshly scraped knees, for the handing out of pastures.
Roll in the wind that coats the grass with pesticides. They’re no good for me
either. Swallow them with mouth closed, I still have manners to uphold.

The solstice is too yesterday to think about now. I gut myself, sell the rotten
parts for market money. I eat all the sweetbread the world offers.

A Cabrera's poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in The New Guard, Brain,Child Magazine, Colere, Acentos Review, The Berkeley Fiction Review, Best Travelers' Tales 2021 Anthology, Mer, Deronda, and other journals. Her short fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Award and adapted for stage by the Bay Area Word for Word Theater Company. She writes, teaches, dances and ride bikes in San Francisco, but not always in that order.

Sydney Shaffer is a preschool teacher, poet, and book lover living on Long Island. She is a creative writing graduate from SUNY Purchase. Her poems are portraits of her life that include magical and whimsical imagery. When Sydney is not writing poetry you can find her cuddled up with her cat and reading a good fantasy novel with some rain sounds playing in the background.