about the author

mica yarrow woods is a maid and copywriter in Chicago. Some of her is available soon or now at Dream Pop, E•Ratio, BOAAT, DREGINALD, The Wanderer, Thin Noon, Palimpsest, and homonym.

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One Poem  

mica yarrow woods

where in your body do you remember your grandmother?

My doorstep has no welcome mat or number above it on the white
metal sheet we call a door. There is a handle. There is a button to press.

With sound and a radio frequency it’s all the same to me.
In theory. In love and war. On the carousel all i see is mud.

i know some of the mud is flesh. i know some of the flesh is callused.
i cannot look anymore. What to do instead. Ask my students

How to actually make change. Is change something you really want.
Are you comfortable. Would you like to be more comfortable.

How. And how again does tomorrow rest on today. Like a ticket
on a windshield. i’m paying no fines. i’m not waiting for the DMV

line to thin out. i forgot my passport. i forgot what it means
to be able to leave the country. To come back. To fly. What i mean

is your haircut. i caught myself thinking my heart was a space
ship. The kind of fuel it takes to leave the Earth. The kind of

your eyes. More of a clairvoyance and Houston we have
lift-off? The travel through dead space. The radiation taking aim

at my telomeres. What do you call a wrinkle. i’m not waiting
for the end. i’m not waiting for the part where i can’t swallow.

Where the water floats. In space they’ve said there is no sound.
You can still scream. So i do. i scream your name as if it could

puncture the hull and escape and become whole and silent
free from all this matter floating around. The snow, the strange

masses between our legs and within us. But. A black hole is making noise,
is hitting a B-flat. 57 octaves below middle C i’m open to it. That, i mean,

no one sleeps soundly.

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