SHIRLEY JACKSON SAYS THAT WE WOULD BE

HAPPIER ON THE MOON

and I’m inclined to believe her | because someone told me that I’m alarming like a blood stain |

the kind you find on white carpet | or that bleach cannot vanquish without some reminder | and it would be better | kinder | to make a home out of dimples pressed into the surface | sliding across

a field of togas and unblemished spaces | without that consequence lingering | I think I’m thrilled by the idea of it all | of joining a bit of everything | curled into spaces between stars.

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sandman games

my partner sleeps

half dragged by golden

sand to reveal critters

from within, each

presenting a fistful of

teeth, tuffs of hair lifting

under scraps of lace, all

to emerge from recycling

bins past the door, moving

over bone of the chicken carcass,

pulling fortunes out of their shapes,

with only an imprint of grease left-

eventually they will migrate into

an ecosystem designed from dog-eared

books and curated stolen pens, each

discarded by a stray wishbone, rustled

bed sheets, a wistful smile half made.

Rachel Small (she/her) writes in Ottawa. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in magazines, including Thorn Literary Magazine, blood orange, The Hellebore, The Shore, and other places. She was the recipient of honourable mention for the John Newlove Poetry Award for her poem “garbage moon and feminist day”. You can find her on twitter @rahel_taller.