Little Horrors

By Nix Carlson

I am harvesting stunted tomatoes / shriveled peppers / and thyme / only this season isn’t romanticized / cottagecore cabins / saphhic euphoria / dancing through violets and sourdough recipes / it is / blistered palms / fruitless self-reliance / meager mutual aid / tending thyme / until the target / locks on me. 

I am coordinating my google calendar / flamingo-pink work / metamour game nights / sage-green for dinners with my wife / replace meditations with crash outs / still / the third Sunday is double-booked, trapped between / friends wandering through floral overgrowth / and / witty signs / rhythmic chants / optimistic unity / state-sanctioned anger management. 

I am staring out my window / at heavy clouds / gentle rain / I want to put on a white dress, run through my suburban nightmare dream / fabric clinging to my slicked skin / catching drops on my tongue / like I would at seven / but I am paralyzed / wondering / which glacier disintegrated / to deliver this acid fall. 

I am scrolling through headlines / every morning / five free-thinking echo chambers show bite-sized disasters I missed / in five hours of fitful rest / and I recall that once in my life / breaking news / meant shock / scandal / sensation / now it cycles through / louder / sharper / bleaker, every time / just / breaking down / breaking hearts / breaking voices. 

I am searching for a Halloween costume / thrifted / because last year’s miniature Elsa’s stitched by bleeding fingers / pile up in landfills / because I’m boycotting every other store on this block / because I can’t sew / because I can’t reimagine my siren allure in poisoned waters / but nothing on the racks is scary this year.

Not when every gilded corner of the world obscures little horrors. 

By Nix Carlson