Odysseus stabs the eye of the cyclops
A toddler dragged a plastic sword through sand
The streetlight flickered like it had a bad stutter
My mother counted pills the way people count money
We ate dinner off paper plates that sagged with grease
The TV preached weather and murder and coupons
I wore the same scrappy shirt three summers in a row
A wasp built a teeming cathedral in the porch lamp
I held my breath during sirens to mute my blood
The sink kept coughing up rust
The moon looked more swollen than usual, like it gained weight
Our love was a folded dollar bill hidden in a shoe
The laundromat on 17 sells us extra time by the quarter
My best friend turned a lighter click into a verse
His brother’s name was glued to the mirror
The stain on my shorts was a small weather system
My heart was a vending machine shaking itself
We slept inside a tire swing’s shadow
Each inhale said don’t leave me hanging here
The outboard motor is a patient grudge
I wanted to mail the sunrise to my worst enemy
I wanted to be pure rot and still be desired
The roadside stand traded bruised peaches for five minutes of silence
My small hunger learned how to hide an erection
My piss could make tap water look like an alibi
Nothing holy survives the day shift here
A blister is its own kind of signature
Landscape is the only witness
I can’t wait to become unfindable
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Sarp Sozdinler is a writer from Philadelphia and Amsterdam. His stories and poems have been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Shenandoah, Wigleaf, HAD, Hobart, X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, and Pithead Chapel, among other journals. He edits the literary journal The Bulb Region. He can be found online @sarpsozdinler or at www.sarpsozdinler.com
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