Supply Ice to Swelling
Palming wasps, I skate
diaphanous wingtips
into bookmarks—chaptering
leaflets of our existence: before
age ten & after
I stopped eating radishes (parsed
into cubes, fed to your dog
under the table). You spent snow
days at my hip: a helium
balloon brushing stucco
ceiling & refusing to pop.
I thought eating gummy worms
in my pudding was childish,
told you I had a dentist
appointment during your birthday—
I gifted sandbox leftovers
two days late & you saved me seashells
party-favored with nametags: you didn’t tear
mine apart—hail-stuck eyelashes
cracked goodbyes, you exhaled
your frost-breath smile. To cure
egos tattooed on scalps: slip
icicles through my hair & skim
those years for ladybugs hidden
on the undersides of leaves.
Megan Nolan is a senior at SUNY Geneseo and nearly finished with both of her majors: English (Creative Writing) and Communication. She is from Syracuse, New York and probably spends too much time playing video games. She would like to have tea with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to find out which Sherlock Holmes spin-offs he enjoys and which ones make him cringe.
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