You Think Your Tendrils Clicked In, – Maya McOmie

tentacles_b&w_cropand I do creep into your weird

grossness. Although I reel

at the absurd, the anthropomorphic: when you

unify jagged things, I spasm. It’s not

that I fear the tentacles: nor that snakes,

slinking, or the buttery gut punch

of a jellyfish hold jurisdiction.

I don’t mean claws—gruesome, stark—

can clench: they cannot grasp.

Whatever I expected, it was not this.

Backwards advancement: an education

in alien code. Known voice

unfamiliar within glints of projection.

What I mean: syncopation makes

injury gleam unremarkably

acceptable. What I do not say:

this is recast. Of all of my

ruses, past-blasted, best rested.

You trace the membrane’s

framework as if you

never knew circles until now.

What would it take to retire

you to apparition. If I could

reinvent the three eyes,

purplish lips: but of course

you function too well, unremorseful.

When singled out each small

exaggeration seems exhausted.

I might seek relentless, a questioning orb.

I cannot eat, blue from warning,

cannot sleep until indulged. So:

strength my unbecoming.

I know: this won’t be how I

turn. My inner tone holds

an even inflection. I am

sparse: without qualifiers, calmness

in a storm’s eye. I cannot bear

self within me.




Maya is a poet, performer and daydreamer who probably spends too much
time thinking about snacks. She grew up with two languages and cultures
and her poetry and art attempts to process the complex emotions that are
part of being a person. She works in a bookstore where, to much joy and
chagrin, she finds at least ten things she wants to read every day.

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