remember the summer I choked on hunger? remember the summer flytrap jaws shut open palms into coffins, little
life fading blue-orange? I felt my hip bones grow and shrink at once-- marrow shocked still in an endless
heatwave, vomit crusted on porcelain. you told me my collarbones could carry bird eggs. I dug out dirt from my lungs,
placed it in the gaps; became the type of girl starving daughters pray to, refusal on my lips. remember when I glorified
ghosts, swore I saw them in my mirror? maybe I was lying. maybe I was sick; disappearing body, disappearing sin.
Madison Zehmer is a poet and wannabe historian, living in NYC. The editor-in-chief of Mineral Lit Mag, she has published and forthcoming work in Drunk Monkeys, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, and LandLocked Magazine. Her first collection, whisper back to earth, will be released by Another New Calligraphy in 2020.