Carina Solis


wind rustles fig leaves. thumbprints
scatter themselves to the contours

of stranger lips. i see mother’s face
in this morning’s cereal bowl, oat loop

eyes, and mouths. pieces unbroken.
broken. a curled fork. tin cups. unfulfilled jars.

in the kitchen, the laundry machine
hums, overflows, spills the dragonflies

nestled in my worn-out pockets.
the knitting of my favorite blue

sweater is frazzled. i rearrange my limbs
to match the splitting thread.

from my window, a girl sleeps under
a maple tree. silently, my clock chimes

to dusk. i peel an apple to its core. pop my
limbs from their sockets. perform.

Carina Solis is a fifteen-year-old writer living in Georgia. Her work is published or forthcoming in the Eunoia Review, Wrongdoing Mag, Gone Lawn, CLOVES, and elsewhere. Find her at or on Twitter @CarinaS74562803.

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