Pantea Karimi © 2017 All Rights Reserved
every night the girlís options wave in the dark
like dirty raincoats.
the girl remembers her heart in the theater
like a problem she is trying to solve.
it was not supposed to look like that.
every year the girl grew there had always been new advice.
those words used to be round at the edges:
count to four, and again,
and go get Ďem
but donít really.
and that was how it was supposed to be,
but now people
keep going to higher and higher extremes.
rip Ďem apart,
pull the lettuce
of their flesh apart like lightning,
you donít go
the girl counts what everyone says
like beads on her glass necklace.
make sure you donít go anywhere alone.
at night every room crawls:
velvet seats, bad skin
like an onionís,
as it got closer.
remembers her heart spread out
on movie theater seats,
learning how her body
could be wrecked.
here is a girl being established
by light, ligature.
the girl wakes up needing a different ending:
twelve tigers in glass beads
who do not want her to die ordinary.
everything is holy and possible.
everything the girl remembers happens
a seat that sticks to her back in the car,
the light shining in from the windows,
the mother and father who ask her to choose better,
but here is the girl trying to choose better,
and it isnít working at all.
here is the girl,
Nora Claire Miller
Copyright © 2017
Nora Claire Miller is a senior at Hampshire College concentrating in poetry and archival studies. Noraís work has appeared in DecomP, SiDEKiCK LIT, H.O.W. Journal, and Eunoia Review.
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