from Dear Marshall, Language Is Our Only Wilderness
I am a market, a meadow, a bitch playing beer pong. This is how I do it. Bird of paradise on repeat. What can I touch? How many shots do you want? See the clots of soil under my dress. See the nape of the shore behind me. A stream of eucalyptus smoke. With a feather fallen in my sherbet. Flat champagne in the shower. Aqua Net on my tongue. A swan on the diving board. Plastic and teetering. I try to be pretty laid upon the stars. And, for effect, I have licked all the batteries. Now I am pressing my body to a window. A sheet of unfallen rain. What will prepare me for my next memory?
Heather Sweeney's manuscript was a finalist for publication this year by Shelterbelt Press and Ahsahta Press. Excerpts are forthcoming in The Hunger: A Journal and La Vague. Other poetry has been published or is forthcoming in dusie, Shampoo, Summer Stock, Bombay Gin, White Stag, Shanti, and Bad Pony. Currently, she lives in San Diego where she teaches writing and yoga.