Sophia Kathryn Jackson

A woman once died here. Ikea chairs piled atop her
stomach their legs sliced her palms. Crucify her home.

Arms lurk the ends of black holes. No, mercy, and my own.
Never fear at first, but then he says it again; “Home, home.”

Birds like you should please sit in the back of the theater.
Feathers press the insides of popcorn bag. Oily fly home.

They like to watch blue blood spin off her sundress, solo dance.
Hold her just right, she’ll strip for you her skin and mail it home.

Not enough grey matter in our palms for the butterflies
to rest in the folds. Flutter before the eyes, show off the way home.

Tangles, and when she grinned there was sand between her teeth.
Tangles, and what if we had split our tongues to save her. Don’t go home.

My old man finds secrets that look like red meat and waterslides.
Stacks them together to build bookshelves. Echoes make the home.

Sophia Kathryn is a sophomore studying Neuroscience and possibly English or Journalism. She lives for abstractions.