Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021
when i dreamt you nearly drowned me
Sophie Boyd-Fliegel
i tried installing a shower drain in my sternum i texted like 10 surgeons each had some version of no nastiness will stick down there not just lotions in gummed up hair but ash and crumbs and smells too the fumes of jealousy will stain like wine and stripe the bones if any bleach in rage hits ammonia in fear youll be done then theres all the little things belly marbles of contempt ulcers of unread emails tonsil stones of regret might swallow too-small clothes that slip past the solar plexus where they’ll rot so bad you can’t forgive your parents youll need more pills one doctor said to block all nightmares at the neck youll want to cast your clavicle in false praise and cement
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