Sea of Islands
Eventually you discover that in addition
to the tragedies you have already endured
comes the burden of other people
being terrified by the dark force
of all of your problems.
You are a beautiful, cursed charm,
a broken toy, pantyhose stuffed
ragdoll with one eye.
It is a power, to repel men
this thoroughly, to be so damaged
Your apartment is haunted
by artifacts from the past.
There is a collection of ashes
in your top dresser drawer,
both of your parents,
your childhood cat.
This is not romantic.
This is not a den of seduction.
“You seem closed off,” they say,
over dinner at a restaurant you cannot afford.
“I am a ghost imitating a human being,”
is how you want to reply.
Instead you open up,
allowing the pierced yolk of yourself
to ooze out, cover them,
and the hurricane strength
of all of your suffering,
to carry them away.
Sarah Bridgins is a writer and performer living in Brooklyn. Her poems have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Sink Review, Two Serious Ladies, InDigest, NAP, and Bone Bouquet among other journals