self-portrait with moving boxes
a ship in peril, i jettison easy: paperback books and gray sweaters, the slick television from my brother. but also a survivor, i cling to the wrack of myself: coke bottle music box felt angel dead succulent typewriter desk lamp poison ring rose quartz leather sheath and small knife pink vibrator beeswax little book of moon phases from my mother— i can dispense with the plain and daily but my artifacts must stay with me floating
second epistle to a plague saint
come into my room and stand at the foot of my bed. every surface in the house is studded with arrows. reach first for the door, the water, the bread. cover my body with your body. hold me apart from the world. by candlelight i'll be your boyish saint irene and tend the wounds in your thighs and stomach. your neck like an open cage and the wild thing in me. in the morning i'll clean the sheets. we'll start again. be my wall, my border, my barrier. by night i'll take you down.
p. hodges adams
p. hodges adams (they/them) is a poet and playwright from a small town in michigan who received their MFA from the university of virginia. they love to write about the body, art, and memory. their work has appeared or is forthcoming in shenandoah, cutbank, sycamore review, new orleans review, december magazine, arkansas international, northwest review, and elsewhere. hopefully they will transform into a beam of sunlight someday soon.