1. I’m buried in another volcano. But this time I’m awake. To be chased with a wielded axe. Sure reckless death with nowhere to run. Hiding in sheer transparent stalls, do not breathe. Do not move. I open my eyes in my bed and the feeling stays. Do not breathe. Do not move. Maybe the reckless rage won’t see you. Maybe this happens when you never want to be seen until you do. Maybe the murderous threat is gone, but I’m still hiding in the stall.
2. The poems that turn to rocks in the bread drawer, buried under lemons tossed because I couldn’t isolate the one that spoiled. Too many fruit trees wilting in the sun. If you swallow your tears, it makes you worse. Cortisol or something. What happens if you swallow your joy. I think smiles that fall on stones perhaps turn to poison. Last night I told you you could leave. This morning I dreamed you didn’t.
Lauren Theresa (she/her) is a queer divergent creative, plant witch, professor, and archetypal psychotherapist living in a NYC-ish corner of NJ with her two tiny humans and vast menagerie of creatures & plants. She’s a founding editor of Icebreakers Lit, and the author of LOST THINGS (Bullshit Lit ’22) and ALL THE TIMES I CRAVED TACO BELL’S 7 LAYER BURRITO AS A METAPHOR FOR SOMETHING AND I’M STILL NOT SURE WHAT IT IS (Maverick Duck Press ’23.) Her work has appeared in literary journals, her own refrigerator, awkward family gatherings, and the publications tab at laurentheresa.com.
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