Poetry by Evan Stefanik
I want to go to the fucking dunes in Michigan where the Diane thought “I’m Dickinson.”
Low life lolly, gagging on the sky. She knows she can fly, so she tries for a sandstorm,
woah kiddo, choke on cinnamon. Again, too much chicken synonym. Because her father
died climbing uphill, I cried more. Before her. She hoped for him, Jesus, and she was
like Mother Teresa. Nails have to burrow somewhere, iron in the stars. I am
the fly on the! She buzzed in, dumb thing. I’ll come with her. Who did she do after it
guzzle dried the shore, let it pour, down and out. From the top. That’s how it feels, family.
Her blood magic only works when her feet are. Freshly naked, she got to wash off
but not for long. Soggy beaches, melt the heart or the legs first?
That’s the reason for the car, apartment hunting season. She has to write a huge sum!
Pay off Daddy, little girl. Loans. I just wish to drown the money myself until it freezes.
If I see it, I might believe I’m another person, like her, ooh, that should be fun, tasty at least,
not enough birds and bees, no one. Boy to keep it for us. Or for me, sinning
at worst, reproducing. I’m a poet and God, take it up, get away don’t. Fucking follow me!
