Is it self-sacrificing to build God in my image
and then tear him down?
Am I the God-killer if the only devotion spurned
is my own?
Harvest came, and with it, the fall,
and I tripped
into the cruellest month, the gaping maw
spring pressed me into service,
off the streets, and into the how how too hot
and the livelong nights, molasses sick and sticky,
too. Look God!
No hands! Winter freezes my spokes,
bicycle wheels broke,
my heart splintered, rusted, too.
I am a pothole
waiting to plunge a car into the creek.
I am the freak
in freak accident, I am the God
Look, God! No hands!
Rachel Warshaw splits her time between St. Paul and Seattle. Her poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming in Angel City Review, Chanter Literary Magazine, Hu Magazine (Gainesville), and Mercury Magazine (Seattle). Her plays have been performed by the 14/48 Projects and Annex Theatre, among others. She can be found on Instagram at @azonaaaa.
A monster truck rally in hell.
She wraps our car in chains and it
transforms into a beautiful silver jaguar
covered in snakes.
Our cat-car rips through the desolate hellscape.
I can feel warm breath on the back of my neck,
cold wind on my face.
I reach an arm out the window
for the bite.
Tori Eberle is a writer based out of Brooklyn, NY. She lives with her dog, cat, and a few wild-found animal skulls. Her work focuses on trauma and emotional violence, as it relates to love, loss, and the fragility of the human body. You can find her lurking online at www.torieberle.com/poetry and on Twitter and Instagram @eberlexm.