September

I know I could do better.
I could go outside, get some sun. Instead,
I watch from my window as the snow falls
as if God is grating parmesan
over the city: Say when. I’ve never
had the chance to love desperately,
but I’ve felt rage worm its way through
my stomach like a parasite. So many things
I cannot say aloud: It would be wrong to bring
a child into the world to watch me suffer, to suffer
with me won’t win me any friends.
Am I worse off than anyone else,
though? I sip my dark roast, spell my
name in carrots on the counter. I am
no longer, at least, a monument
to damage: my ribcage a coliseum,
its broken edges jabbing
at the sky. The faint sounds
of Earth, Wind, and Fire play
in my kitchen, and I smile,
even shimmy a little. None of us
will last forever. Someday,
maybe soon, everything will ache
a little less.

Alexis Sears

Alexis Sears

Alexis Sears earned her MFA in poetry from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and her Bachelor’s from Johns Hopkins University. Her first book, Out of Order, won the 2021 Donald Justice Poetry Prize and is forthcoming from Autumn House Press in 2022. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Hopkins Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Cortland Review, Cimarron Review, Poet Lore, and elsewhere.
Alexis Sears

Latest posts by Alexis Sears (see all)

Author: Alexis Sears

Alexis Sears earned her MFA in poetry from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and her Bachelor’s from Johns Hopkins University. Her first book, Out of Order, won the 2021 Donald Justice Poetry Prize and is forthcoming from Autumn House Press in 2022. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Hopkins Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Cortland Review, Cimarron Review, Poet Lore, and elsewhere.