from That Which Comes After

Sideways angled sun

I rode my bike through you seven times

Wilderness rings funny to this tongue

You said you could feel where I ended

There were a lot of apples in the bag

Nothing felt ripe anymore

Kept putting my hands on fruit

I can't feel anything you'd say

Lots of rain on a Sunday

Paper bag chrysanthemum on the tracks

Fantastic suitcase

Whatever you left with stays gone

from That Which Comes After

I've lived half awake before

Car clipped my kneecap

Knit hat pulls over

Cupping my ears to block

Traffic ceaseless

Luncheon for administrative

Assistants call myself

Secretary I like the

Self-deprecation I wear

Crowning heads every

Existence stilled

My years as endless

News feed only the

Fiction matters

Always thought I'd be

Lead singer instead

Acting out my glories

Stage my rebirth

All grown up

The distance between

Hatch an egg

Sit on your face

Reason the names

For paint I can't come

Back to you anymore

Stop kissing my cheeks

Your mouth has said

What I fear most

Death is a vital

Ingredient in my hips

The bones you've licked

While I shook

Cocktails to ice

Blacked out a name

Blacked out another

That's not resistance

But moving over

On the bus

Cable repairman

Bicycle helmet

Line about birds

Put the grass back

In my mouth

Let me see

Alexis Pope is the author of Soft Threat (Coconut Books, 2014), as well as three chapbooks. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bat City Review, Denver Quarterly, Poor Claudia :: Phenome, and The Volta, among others. She lives in Brooklyn.