Mallory Pearson

may came over us 

like the top of a ferris wheel. 

every bird was a blemish 

in the clove scented wind. 

i thought about oranges, 

and her fingers against my neck, 

and the tendency of the metal cage 

to swing, with no direction. 

i closed my eyes, wished i could 

touch butterflies without crying. 


i only think about it now 

because she was a good kisser, 

blooming against my mouth 

like late summer wildflowers, 

sweet with kool-aid colored nectar. 

in a few past lives, this must have been enough, 

her molten hands in my hair melting at the roots, 

the swift rush of her body 

like the Atlantic, coming in cold. 


every body of water was thick with salt 

and that summer was a medusa of a girl, 

with the memory of her wrists 

slim, like poplar trees, 

and i sucked at the skin of my own 

like i was hungry for blood, 

desperate to be seen by whatever waits 

in the dark. june came in, hot like hell, 

put me to sleep in the swamp, 

and begged me off that crooked tree 

on the outskirts of the hunt. 

Mallory Pearson is a 21-year-old painter, jeweller, and poet currently living in Brooklyn, NY. She has a great interest in spirituality, sexuality, and femininity, and spends most of her time quickly getting bored of new hobbies.