two poems

tWo PoEMs

Hannah Morgan

ChICken pox

...I got the chicken pox...shot...again it popped popped ...under my skin and now it’s a red itchy dot…knob...it’s ...a mound that felt...wet after needle out...touched it ...fast after needle...she said...just don’t be around anyone ...compromised...i said...i feel woozy...and she fanned me ...for some time.

I see myselF

Soon I see myself—wailing—emptied— sitting alone on my mother’s couch my father took, gave to me—

Alone—a terror—fumbling to name unsteady things—dispensable—unwilling to be satisfied, to live alone—emptied— feeling no pushpull—wailing— on the leather couch—

I see myself like I saw myself alone—wailing— on a wood floor in a secret border town— emptied—sun-diffused and scrubbed-down—

I see myself like I saw myself unable to wail— alone—throwing what I own into a pile on the linoleum floor and leaving it—dispensable—pushpull eighth floor balcony—

I see myself like I saw myself hailing a cab—alone— at ten in the icy morning in Chinatown—emptied— busy people staring at the blank space where my head should be—a terror