Friends That Hold

By gia w.

We put sulfur on acne,
hold hair in exchange for vomit.
The light of the TV becomes a halo
as we gather around, screaming.

The federal government and the news chew
on my red corpse before it is even a corpse.

Meanwhile, my friends press puzzle pieces into my palms.
They resuscitate me with the details: pansies, natal charts, sushi rolls,
“you ever notice that our eyes are the same color?”

We pray for a house big enough 
for our dimpled bodies and our dripping lesions. 
The house has a garden because someone’s mother grew a tomato once. 
A statue of the Virgin Mary and a cardboard cutout of Zayn take turns guarding the front door.
There is a ferret to keep us company and a cat to keep the ferret company. 
After spending the day cooking nachos and collecting seashells 
we fall asleep on top of each other on an air mattress that is always deflated by morning.

                                         Everything smells like frankincense and lavender, yet I never sneeze.

gia w. is an emerging artist and writer whose work explores memory and love. she would like to thank the poet aaron smith, her undergraduate poetry class, and the undercurrent writing community for their support in developing her craft.