three poems

by Emily Pavick

Statecraft

I am afraid of the ocean—

its copious, moon-ruled belly

inhaling loose pieces of the earth

one soft, tide-fat gulp after another

leaf-rot, bark-shred, maple-spine

like little moons skimming skin

they steal—

not from stars

but from this half-acre of woodland

what once served

as a fortress, grew brainless,

the forest

river rats root

in the ribcages of trees

I watch the pull—

salt climbing skyward,

brine to breath of cliff-bone,

with everything falling

toward a mouth

that never fills

Purlieus

there are things to remember about Room 4B—

like how, after fifteen seconds, the shower dies

you have to press the button

to make it live again

me: a sea slug after coral

silvery brain-wired implants

blinking apertures

coloring book pages

cheap computer paper

you’re a therapist, you tell them

(no one is listening)

say yes to yoga

trade your apple pie

for Boo-hoo-Betty’s blue pills

say no to AA

sketch your own flesh-rooted eyes

into a space traveler’s coloring book

leave it on the nurse’s station desk

near the therapy lamp

and crumbs of blue light

Rhizophere

Beneath a coarse, grain-spattered crust

of granite—each fleck like fractured

glass eels twisting through salt— I

sense you. You strange, phosphorescent

alien of impossible geometry.

Photo of Emily Pavick

BIO: Emily Pavick’s work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Hippocampus Magazine, Hobart, The Forge Literary Magazine, Riggwelter Press, Boston Literary Magazine, and others.