by Teline Trần
MORSE CODE
When you grinned at me,
I saw a row of silver, dazzling
gems
This attachment brings out malice
Superimposed with glee
Pulling at the same blistered flesh that grows back
Stronger each time
Later, left alone, I remember
A sequence writes itself under pressure
Even when no one is recording
Conservatively, I choose to show face
Spend afternoons
Unraveling long lists that are more about feeling than doing,
Wrapped through the comforts of American food blogging
That almost always end in toasted breadcrumbs or
green onions
Long stop, short stop, three short stops
What’s inside of that throated gill is
None of my humanly business
Dah––dit
The endpoints of a song
Extend and reverb to the whirring of
the turbine
to forget
UNBREAK THE LATCH CUZ WE ARE WAITING FOR YOU TO COPY THE KEYS
My shrink admitted to me
the secret to a more polished home
is a medicine cabinet
full of quarters,
grapes along the windowsill,
and post-it reminders lining
the ceiling fan’s bones
Since then, I dust
and linger this knowing stare
with a debonair lift of the brow
as if I forfeited the accrued value
of it all
Hanging in the closet is
my borderline brother’s
t-shirt
stiff with sweat, unwashable
a sculpture of sorts
but an honor of none
More, under the sink is
a blinking leak
Underneath, I leave my
potted herbs that need no light
just rust
****
Teline Trần (b. 1997) is an American poet.