Alrisha Shea

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 They are a writer who is new to the medium, and who is currently unpublished.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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