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.

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MANY POEMS by RYAN ALIAPOULIOS

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A POEM by KATE EHRENBERG