He Says “I Miss How You Taste” and I Text Back “I Know”
He asks how many men I’ve split
myself open for and I say “how
many do you think?” There’s a galaxy
between my legs too vast to swallow
with the body of every man who
tried swimming in its muck.
Skulls inside astronaut suits thrown
back in laughter. He peered up
and licked me like a cracked egg,
eager to please. I could have
crushed him but I’m too nice,
always reaching inertia.
I Dreamt the Ocean Was My Mother
womb as first entanglement,
seaweed umbilical cord all bulb
& bump & bristle. cut my knee
on coral as if i do not live on my
hands; sand & blood like old
friends, memory something you
swallow when there is nothing
else to eat. she says she is sorry for
trying to drown me, for taking kelp
to my ankles to remind me of my
birthing. i tell her it is difficult to
forgive water & still drink from
her hand. she gives no alms, no
way to soothe this burning. i do not
know what i am doing wrong; my
palms wrinkle with salt as she
pulls me past shore & tells me
cannot forgive such wreckage.
Kanika Lawton is a writer, poet, and editor from Vancouver, British Columbia. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology with a Minor in Film Studies from the University of British Columbia, where she served as an editor with the UBC Undergraduate Film Student Association. Kanika is the Editor-in-Chief of L’Éphémère Review, a 2018 Porkbelly Press Micro Chapbook Series finalist, and a 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has appeared in Rambutan Literary, Ricepaper Magazine, Bombus Press, Vagabond City Literary Journal, and Hypertrophic Literary, among others. She is the author of three chapbooks, including Wildfire Heart (The Poetry Annals, 2018). She was born in 1995 and spends her time stretched between Vancouver, Seattle, and Los Angeles, finding solace in tide pools along the West Coast.