by Isabelle Newson
Never compare when
Skin is plaid in July
Or concrete enmeshes its floors with sparkles.
You’ll feel like everyone’s faces
Are made out of heated caves.
So I sip turgid blue until a violin invites itself
With an unassuming application.
My answer is a chewed straw,
which I store under a duvet.
Searching around to play it every night
Like juggling stars and launching them to a moving moon in a stilled car.
Like twiddling gates and spinning keys into vomit.
Searching for obsolete voice audios of newborn ardency.
Laughter and its feathered toes.
______
Isabelle Newson is a writer from Los Angeles. You can find her work on ExPat Press, World Hunger, and forthcoming in Michigan City Review. Instagram: izzynews0n.
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