imitation of crow (Kafka)
each day i revel
in scavengry;
finding revelation in
anything that glistens
& glosses
you can have
the intangible or the
tangible you can’t
break the wishbone larger
than its parts
chimerism i’ve found
is much the same:
crow eyes & turtleshell
nest on my back
amalgam is the title
that’s been given
here i am, patchwork–
or something worse
than counterpane
i’ve never used a found mirror
to reveal epiphany
[ ] with cello & incubator (Kafka)
my clammy crinkled palms could flood a city, or an anthill;
either way, i am still shaking,
shell shocked with idleness & anticipation
of sound
[
the only thing that fits perfectly between
my legs is a cello
]
sitting in rehearsal like this i adopt
a kind of fetal posture
as if i am being born not being broken
as if i am already cringing at what my newborn ears
have heard; wrong notes, all of them. wrong fingers,
wrong limbs.
i was put in an incubator for a month
after my lungs first attempted speech
i was put in speech therapy for years
after my throat attempted literacy
and now hands stutter attempting ritual or reach;
water taking lifetimes to leap from faucet to face
i stare my figure down
(wrong fingers, wrong limbs)
because (i’ve heard) observation
alters form
and yet,
Alrisha Shea is a 16-year-old non-binary student. They are a writer who is new to the medium, and who is currently unpublished. They are planning to double-major in Biology and Data Science in undergrad. They spend their spare time avoiding hypothermia and throwing parties they don’t attend.
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