B. R. Yeager lives in Western Mass, stuck between his overwhelming fears of teenagers and Alzheimer’s disease. His work has appeared in FreezeRay Poetry, Mixtape Methodology, and is forthcoming from Cheap Pop, Pidgeonholes, and Cartridge Lit.
if i pushed the tip of a knife through my belly you would hear a tight invisible hiss. A stovetop clicking over to light & the pilot’s out. you would watch my skin shrink & wrinkle like facsimile & so little of me would be left a box would go to waste.
you will find the pornography & hints within binding but my terror is tucked in strangers littered throughout fifty mile radii. shaking in bed & sweat my words peeking from the collage of their abuse & my legacy.
you can only re-read so many times before stories become chapters & chapters become paragraphs & paragraphs become sentences & sentences become words & words become letters & letters become stalks & circles & clusters of ink or pixel.
& you could never believe the emptiness in my chest & head or the white filling my retina & wind so fast to pop eardrums & its like water filled with salt or oxygen twisting into your heart & the lack of space between being here and being in everything & there’s no way you could grasp it but it’s okay & i’m okay & the world only grew that much more gentle & soft & calm & it’s all okay. it’s so okay.