five poems
by Amelia Napiorkowski
Swollen
soft tissue explosion, hemorrhoid
fan to circulate the bleach
fingers press timidly
I leave my beating heart in the grass, litter box
late response, in the name of self-care
I hit my head against the ceramic soap dish
in the tub, more than once
I can look up at the water and not think of death
but I once did every chance I could get
my mind recluse to this body
touched and touching
blister feet and mouths, pocket or liquid balloon
reject my heart but don’t put it so blindly
that I gave my all to you.
I Try to Remain Elsewhere
your solace etched
in the fake-diamond band
of a nose-pierced waitress
with a baby-bird choke
ding of tips, traced
your cool fingers against
the edge of the rounded table, glass
pool noodles wrapped around
my head, I thought you’d understand
what it meant when I left
the room unattended
heat dish sat, standing
in tiny little unthinkable shoes
or the new hope I couldn’t give you
made everything from scratch, last
time it offended you
when the clippers went missing
in the drawer they’d always been, like
makeup scrubbed from a clean face
drenched, defiling brand-name
mouthfuls of pain, soured and still trying
burning-dry motioned face, powdered shampoo
and a party, for the sake
of numbers on a receipt, rejections
a fast-paced body lotioned, lying
I don’t know how to change
a line I tried, reached into my mind
and took out my life.
Discover
1.
I froze my account and it blocked all the mystery transactions:
Target, Chipotle, normal things... phishers probably just want to eat.
There’s a moment of silence I sit in
when everyone walks out the door but… I’m expected
and they probably just want to eat.
2.
No matter how hard I try to push myself against his back I can’t get close:
Like an invisible forcefield protecting… he moves my hand.
So I stop touching his body like it’s too intimate
I realize he’d rather sleep than share this moment… so I let him
dream up a better version of me.
3.
I paint the shed in my socks and ignored the neighbors’ knocks:
Introducing the baby to a Slothrust dance party… taste the saltlakrits on my tongue.
It needs more time and my hands are dry but
I had a satisfying dream where I finally finished something… round of applause
for something coming from my hunger.
Ending
Perhaps he just wanted to be left alone and perhaps I just hold on to feelings in a way that screams feeling - he reads quickly, like he doesn’t care, which isn’t fair because maybe he just reads quickly, but - I assume he didn’t finish the sentence on purpose, the way I sat with the last line, unfinished blank space, a word unspelled, ending on no punctuat
Manic
Am I brilliant? Evil?
Content Content Content
Could I have taken a nap? Should I have? Surely. But
do do do because what if it runs out? What if it
happens again? Like hanxiety for energy and
embarrassment about what I so urgently created -
Obsession. That fire…
They said was always there WAIT. Will it be used
against me?
Paranoia. My husband will use what I’ve written to make
me sound crazy and take my baby from me. I can’t
let it happen Burn Burn Burn
it all, just in case. What have I
Done? These stupid useless projects… who do I think
I am? Get the fuck off me WAIT.ride it, silly.
Photo of Amelia Napiorkowski
BIO: Amelia Napiorkowski lives outside of Washington, DC on the Chesapeake Bay with her husband, son, and stepdaughters. In 2025, she quit her government job in intelligence to stay at home with her baby. Her work appears in wildscape. literary journal, the Broken Teacup, Mania Magazine, and Midsummer Dream House.