Maria Giesbrecht
I wonder if Gala Dalí knows I think about her
like a llama thinks about spitting
on the Brooklyn Bridge / there are two
ways to say / I love you / a moth is still /
a moth in the dark / please tattoo quotation
marks on each of my cheeks / cite my ass
in MLA / tell her man I’m dying to conclude
the paragraph / tell her she’s my spitting / image
Lunchbox lungs
My grapes are giving me the side eye today. Two of them. In my lunch box, next to the cashew cheese I brought because my doctor said my left ovary will burst if I eat more dairy. Burst. What a beautiful word. I don’t know if they still teach cursive in high school. I don’t know if a fist uncurling is a bursting or a softening. There’s a lot of language that can fill you up. There’s even more that can make you hungry. A grape is a good thing. Because it knows the difference.
MRI of my left ovary
my youth dances
on the tip of the night
like a ballerina
on a blade
and I have so much
to lose—a life with purple shutters
and there’s a porch
in my dreams—
pale blue and peeling
it’s made of sardines though
and I slip every time
I step onto it
Maria Giesbrecht’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Narrative, The Literary Review of Canada, San Pedro River Review, and elsewhere.