Amy Marguerite
Far too blue
I have grown appendages of contempt
for many things. I believe in God because people
are too digestible. I am terrible at staying
in touch unless you are exceptionally interesting
which means you either chew grass or chew gum
like Grace Paley. I inherited my cheekbones from no one.
I feel abandonment like a baby left alone for half
a minute but can’t cry about it because fluoxetine
exchanged that privilege for PURE ELATION.
I give up at once on anything I cannot immediately be
brilliant at. I would rather feast on a decaying twig
doused in petrol than play chess with your children, Nora.
My parents never put the correct number of candles
on my cakes. I am tired of pretending I don’t want
to be greedy. I have conditioned my body to housesit
dead ends for pleasure. I dream of the day my eyes
are the seeds of a green bell pepper. The world is already
far too blue and squinting at what light.
measuring (in)sincerity
if every prayer is a plea
why am i still waiting to be
realised? i have mastered
the ritual. i should be seriously
remarkable by now. but all my gods
are goal posts /ghosts
good health cannot move
through. i am the reason ironing
boards have covers
as useless as the hail
mary after skipping a meal.
i am a miracle offcut.
i am a doctrine-hooded heretic.
a whole bunch of us
were expecting a difference
between sent up and
given up by now.
what is disappointment
if not
a huge relief.
Amy Marguerite (she/her) is a poet and essayist living in Aro Valley, Pōneke. She completed an MA in Creative Writing at the IIML in 2022. Her summer reading will happen in the garden and involve lots of Eileen Myles.