FOUR POEMS by TIA FISHLER
die ii grow
maggots bop // my ear—
they sound like her—like trouble & further—
once they take over I // become their flies
a million little ones in the shape of me
marionetting as your hive :: a dead mouse
decomposes neath the chaise
& I melt beneath your floorboards,
sew them together :: if I snort dirt
maybe next christmas you’ll care—
I’ll come back because I want
to love you :: cellophane—
secure me like a leftover
remember before I rot
that I chew :: I’m rot rooted
upward in debris—leave me,
unless you love me, please
simulate
if we buy in bulk we’ll save big
though I know less than a physicist
I’d rather we speed up, hot wheels on sale
I’ll buy you a couple—a treat is a night
we’re faces :: indiscernible & endless
the data might end // this isn’t us is it?
what if // what if // I’m a bitch // a bitch // what if // I can’t write
about you when I’m looking at you
I just want to keep looking
at you // I’m a lady—I love to mince
onions—mostly good—at that :: method poser
it’s easy to write in couplets
I’m shelling comfort :: sifting through
muses—thank you—you’re immortalized
while I’m imprinted :: a bargain
a blame :: I’ll stop soon
// not now, a heart washed is too stripping :: too satiating
& I’m starving—give it to me
in butcher paper :: wrap it up
pro bono—we’re running
out of veins :: we’re running out
of words // I’m one to mince :: displacement
cling-wrapped // this is us—isn’t it
inverse
sleeping baby chicks
in the hidden coop by the wood
breathe maggots
it’s beautiful
when death can inflate—
my cat crumples legless harvestmen—cocks
his head when their breaths lose rhythm
so they turntable // tumbleweed
cross the hardwood
I wake up bitten—but I wake up
nonetheless // baby chicks wish worms
to weave through their eyes
while I order a cold brew I feel their tongues
flicking :: the earwig
on my hairline—I too feel sharp
& hope to die
on my bathroom floor
eat me—
before the maggots
recluse
I hike the attic to find him—braids loose :: eyes luminated :: carpet vacuumed through every
piece of furniture :: three inches to the right—
I know they did it, they did it twice—his front tooth is no longer in his mouth, it’s in
the walls crowning communes, make fun of me, I like it, I believe him! I say it—he
grimaces—toothless—looms, grifts—one-hundred-&-fifty mice high—buff :: a pacifist.
Outsmarted by small. Big by association. Pretty in a braid.
One tooth & no publicity for three days :: ten years between mice celebrated through two
retainers. Six hours, one hour per square meter. Spot less. Make fun of me—I can’t! Pretty
doesn’t consider loss. Scurrying in an abyss above the bed, he hears things I don’t. I’m attuned.
Two mice strut away swallowed by his first retainer—then rejoice in confetti dust—he threatens
them in Tom & Jerry—bluegrass static—the gist—we’ll go back for more.
Teeter totter but maybe they’re god-like, curling palleted parabola with a
lone lookout. Amphitheater center stage.
(His second retainer is a DJ booth.)
I’d never be able to kill one—I believe him! I can kill a plant. Tarot reads swords—always reads
swords. He’ll tell me when he finds a tooth. The commune’s glowing :: new plaque :: O,
please—I haven’t slept— I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Some mouse
considers empathy—his expense—you can tell no one gets it.
He tells me what he tells me while the mice are merry—their most ornamental tribute is covered
in his spit. Single teeth mimic jewels atop royalty’s crown :: chitter-shimmy-tango—I
metronome braiding while he banjos, he’s getting a new tooth—they won this round—tough guy,
says he has a mirror for me—my favorite flowers, too.
I’m missing a tooth, he says. He’s missing a tooth.
I’m getting a new one. He’s getting a new tooth.
Tia Fishler (she/her) received her MFA in poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in May of 2024. She currently lives, writes, teaches, and flourishes in Iowa City. Her work can be read or is forthcoming in Feminine Collective and Prompt Press. You can find her on X at @fishler_tia.