- Kelsey Marie Harris
Twelve poems // Kelsey Marie Harris
The square longed to be a sexier polygon
Nonagon, maybe
At some point
I will stop questioning my penmanship
And counting my breath
If I fall in the woods
And no one is there to hear me scream
It is still awkward
And a slight overreaction
The sensation in my arm makes me question
if I had a heroin addiction in a past life
or as a child
my former opiate addiction is a repressed memory
as a child I always knew I’d get vagina cancer
There are days a wad of 2 ply must play stand in for a tampon
We cannot always live up to our full potential
Teach your daughters
There are times we must scratch the crust off our panties
And ride them out another day
In a world where everything is hellbent on throwing off our ph
Teach your daughters
Douching does not rid today of its sorrow
Only tomorrow of its strength
Dawn dish detergent bubble bath
Influenza
Cancer
The summer sausage experiment
The illuminati
Climate change
Wearing panties
Not wearing panties
Secondhand panties
Secondhand couch
Public toilets
Anti-depressants
Seasonal depression
Dairy
Gentrification
Shaving
Not shaving
Birth control
Pesticides
Botflies
Chip crumbs
Mercury
Sulfate
Fluoride
Gluten
OCD
MSG
GMO
BPA
YMCA
I haven’t peed today
The bees are dying
Led paint
Morning traffic
Skipping breakfast
Improper hand washing
I wore these pants yesterday
I pulled the short straw
I missed a memo
You forgot to sneeze in your elbow
Cancer
When I die
Plaster my likeness on t-shirts and wrist bands
Selfie with my casket and #funeralflow
Sign my body like your Jr high year book, HAGS
Brand my initials on your first born
Worship me like God, no Oprah
Sell my dirty panties as keepsakes
Cut off my fingers and string them around your neck
Call out my name when you make love, or shit
Photoshop my face over pictures of your grandparents
Use me to rear your children
Stuff me with potpourri and display me on holidays
Prop me in your garden to scare the crows
Modge podge my skin over dresser drawers and coffee mugs
Add clever quotes
Like if you were me you’d be here by now
Jesus fish is farm raised and filled with mercury
Limit consumption, or have weird babies
This is a fast time of slow moving
Futures can’t grow in radioactive soil
War is raging
War has taken all your glow sticks
Club soda away your intent
Children today are anatomically correct
School halls are lined with labia
Everything looks like a vagina
Unless it looks like a penis
This is a breast in the shape of a poem
It is not perfect
It may even grow cancer one day
For now, appreciate it for its mild suppleness and moderate elasticity
This is a penis in the shape of a poem
I do not hate it
Though it is not without merit
I will not genuflect
This is a vagina in the shape of a poem
Depending on the genre I choose
It may or may not have teeth
Enter at your own risk, never unannounced
I may have peed in your electric outlet
fortunately, it hasn’t worked since the last time I peed in it
As a child, instead of poems, I would write body parts
I’d stash them in every room
If you found yourself nervous in the kitchen
you’d only have to reach around the cereal to make everyone in the room naked
Gender fluid coats the newborn
Gender fluid from the tit
Gender fluid in a Kleenex
Gender fluid tampon
Soaked in vodka
Gender fluid fueling your car
Gender fluid filling your Big Gulp
Gender fluid dripping from roof top
Gender fluid on the floor
A wet sock
Gender fluid in the syringe
Gender fluid on the toilet seat
Gender fluid in your eyes
Gender fluid stains your pillow
Looks like Jesus
//
Kelsey Marie Harris is a poet in less than the traditional sense. Her work is often experimental, generally offensive, and usually foaming at the mouth. She reps the mid-west. Ask her why she loves Racine. (Editor's note: You need to follow her out on Instagram.)