On tiptoe I
extend my fingers
toward the dark mouths
of stage’s end, their
glittering rows of hot teeth.
On whose shoulders
do I live?
My toes grip,
my calves bulge
like nervous eyes.
I can trust him
with my neck.
He is the strong man,
these are the shoulders
I tried to push away
when last night he
went drunk into
my caravan and found
me sprawled in
green velvet and moon rays.
Now I rise
by his hand,
my waist supported.
I arch my back—
back, back.
My throat meets
my bare feet, and
my smile meets his.
Last night’s injury
flutters inside my
belly like a bottled moth
with dust-draped wings.
It will die there.
The strong man lowers me,
legs split, to the floor.
I beam.
Emilia Joan Hamra lives in Philadelphia where she founded and edits The Shoutflower, a print journal of art and literature. She studied Creative Writing at Arizona State University, has worked as a copy-editor for Four Way Books, and was the recipient of the national Norman Mailer College Poetry Award. Her work is published or forthcoming in Occulum, giallo lit, Santa Ana River Review, the tiny, and others. You can find her on Instagram @shetalkstobees
RESURRECTION mag 