Ella Kindt
the air conditioner spits
cold in the corner, ribbons
of foxglove bloom between
us, melt into your hair, tacky
& sweet smelling. remember
we are made of soft things.
remember we are finite. with bodies
submerged, we can’t hear the
hearse in the backyard, the hole
in the roof where rain can get in.
the seats are small ponds. I am
animal, red-footed tree frog. i learn
to breathe through my skin, seek
heat from your two cupped hands, closing.
tonight, kneel between my legs,
past the spider bite & suck leeches
off my thigh, i will pretend to
believe i am still hungry. i bite
down on tendon & sinew &
marrow, remember the foxglove’s
poison milk. i split open, a
sewn wound, cattails shoot up
through foam & leather seats,
through eye sockets, through
cracks the hallway light wraps
delicate fingers under the door,
reaching for the cut out moon.
we lay all awash in the hum of blood
under skin, the ac clicks off.
Ella Kindt is a poet and amateur botanist from the marshes of Charleston, South Carolina. Now graduated from Clemson University, she is pursuing an MFA in poetry at North Carolina State University. Their work appears in Susurrus Magazine, Carolina Muse, Scaffold, and Sardine Can Collective, among others. Ella can be found daydreaming, singing off-key, or tending to their army of houseplants.
