Elizabeth Sackett earned a degree in English with a writing concentration from SUNY Geneseo, where she received the Lucy Harmon Award for Fiction Writing and was published in Gandy Dancer. She has also been published in Gravity Of The Thing, Fickle Muses, Neon Literary Magazine and Subprimal Poetry Art, and enjoys writing about women, folklore, and disappointment. She spends her spare time drawing pictures of bird skeletons.

Wherein

A

I’ve been keeping my heart holy.
As in, full of holes.
It’s a delicate process.
The pinnacle of style. I saw
through bone; I use a drill
gun, then, for pinpricks
like stars. I digress. I’m not
writing about my heart but
the small places between heartbit
and heartbit.

(You can’t quite
curl up, can you?
Holes the size of grains
of sand. Holes the size
of bits of glitter. I do you
a disservice, making you
sleep there.)

B

Wherein I love you
so specifically you are a
splinter in my
capillaries. a hungry
brown leaf. a zipper
caught in the flesh of
my hip. Wherein I am
the dull dinner plates in your
eyes. Wherein I am the dust
in the cylinder, and
the red reaching for your mouth
from the glass.