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 carinasolis.carrd.co or on Twitter @CarinaS74562803.