Poetry by Rachel Eubanks
A soft pink and even softer cotton pajama pant drawstring:
I coil it tight, between my fingers–
Until it looks like fuzzy bubble gum tape
Or small intestines twisted in Parma Rosa
Or breast cancer squeezed into a thumbprint
Or the flat stump of an oak I scarred with initials
Or “LVOE ME” misspelled on tart heart-shaped candies
Or towels stained with firetruck-red streaks when she dries her hair
Or the Milky Way collapsing through rose-colored glasses
Or hyperventilating in Sex and Sexuality in the city library–
When I pull it straight,
I unwind every sentence ever written.
