my smile takes up my whole face, but I have clouds on my hands so I can't touch it

my smile takes up my whole face, but I have clouds on my hands so I can’t touch it

by: Bekah Pollard

I sit in a freshly opened jar of marshmallow fluff,

tilting back ever-so-slightly.

The tips of my toes peeking out

from atop the mound.

A miniature man in overalls stands on my shoulders and pours

a tin bucket of luke-warm water

down my back, igniting my senses.

My lips tingle from a kiss.

My fingertips twitch from a touch.

The very tip of my right ring-finger toe tells me,

“Hey, this is fun.”

The waterfall feels numb and present

as droplets dance and dart

across my back.

The man with the bucket takes a break

and opens a trap door above my left ear,

blowing the fog from the cracks in my brain.

I wrap myself in a blanket as

the tip of my right ring-finger toe

kisses the floor.

I fall asleep lying on my back

in a tub of warm water,

covering my ears halfway.

gray

gray

by: bekah pollard

i’ve always been scared of the dentist. sharp teeth

and pinched gums and cut up tongues

from X-Ray strips. questions answered with open

mouths while latex fingers

smother my tastebuds and knuckles hit my nose.

dental floss strings into stinging gums and suction

straws intake my spit as if it doesn’t belong

in my mouth. fresh water shot

through a metal straw, sterile and cold.

Let's Go Camping

Let’s Go Camping

By: Bekah Pollard

Turning and twirling let’s jump off the dock,

let’s go hurling swirling into the middle of the lake but

don’t choke on the wake, make sure you’re

back out in time for dinner.

Fish dinner. Fried fish. Never meat, not for me. Maybe that’s

why I don’t eat hotdogs now. That time I puked, threw

them up outside the tent, sitting on the mini-van’s bumper while

little brother slept inside. We had to go home even though

I had my princess pillowcase.

I grew up thinking if you threw up you’d have to go home, everything

would be ruined. Now I know you can throw up and still go to class.

You can pull off an exit to go get gas or buy some snacks or

even pee. It’s not that difficult. You can take your comforter off your bed

and snuggle up with it on the couch. Watch out, don’t step in any goose poop.

Seaweed fingers strangling my legs in the lake

slippery slime stopping me from going up the ladder

turning the corner and passing through green tentacles.

Gushy foot in pushy sand sloshing water onto land

blades of grass sticking on skin breathing in campfire smoke.

Her Nose Can Surely Unlock Doors

Her Nose Can Surely Unlock Doors

By: Bekah Pollard

The Grinch’s wife sits, perched on a slouchy couch.

Her faded orange hair, washed with pink shampoo.

A small rat-tail braid swims around

joining the waterfall of hair on her shoulder.

Her pale bright skin and large bulgy eyes grow wider

with each word she voices.

            (Her eyes got so big from floating down streams

            collecting water. Mr. Grinch was kind enough

            to put them back in her sockets.)

Her long frail fingers play invisible piano keys every time she speaks.

Her large teeth are sharp like her cheekbones and crisp

like her pointed nose.

            I wonder if he thanks her when she makes him dinner. I wonder

            if she minds the soft scratchiness of his legs on hers

            when they sleep.

Do their bumpy teeth clang together

when they kiss?

                                                                                    Does he like the garden in the front yard

                                                                                    as much as she does?

                        Does it hurt to pat blush onto her sharp

                        cheekbones?

                                                                                    Do her eyelashes cut glass?

Her nose can surely unlock doors, but does she use it for that?

dead possum

dead possum

by: bekah pollard

all of the squirrels are running and jumping and

climbing faster than I’ve ever seen. scaling the trees scurrying

across grass as if their lives depend on it.

they’re hiding. they’re seeking

shelter because they know. they’ve seen it.

down the street down on the ground

way down beneath the trees lies a motionless

mass of fur. belly down, tail out, face buried in the grass

like it’s embarrassed to have died this way.

unmoving, head covered, I couldn’t tell

if it was dead or just playing. hiding for now because

it shouldn’t be out in the daytime? stuck to the ground

only until sun falls and moon rises?

as the rain falls and the nights pass, it still sits.

growing wet, shriveling like an old rag

drawing into itself even when it can no longer move.

its hairless muscley tail laid out

weighing on bumpy cement, curved slightly as if to wave

a last goodbye, then glued forever to the ground.

green

green

by: bekah pollard 

did you know

                        hair, fingertips, and teeth

                        are made of the same stuff?

I forget what its called, but I think that it’s keratin.

            I could have made that up, but

my teeth will never know.

your face

your face

by: bekah pollard

your face your face your face holds so many treasures within

your skin I’ll try and think of some your eyes your soft

sharp blue eyes that always look gentle and settled yet open

just the right amount sometimes you bulge them out when

you’re excited or feeling goofy but that doesn’t rob them of

their beauty the lashes are nice a good length and moderate

thickness light brown strokes keeping dust and dirt out of

the blue I love looking at you from above when you’ve nestled your head

in the crook of my chest and I’m sitting up taller than you

I look down my arms holding you close and see how your

eyelashes top your eyes softly while fiery blue pokes through and

I see the round of your nose sitting on top of your perfect lips

your lips which curve and dip in such soft gestures yet look so

intentional like they’ve been right there on your face your whole life

and that little divot above your top lip I think it’s called a philtrum

well it’s lovely creating the perfect shadow cast over

your pouty and perfect mouth and don’t forget the little freckle

under your nose above your lip on the left side of your face there’s a lively

curved line that dances through the middle of your lips it curls up on

both ends in the corners and the way your lips feel when you kiss

me it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before the grand softness pulls me in

and loves my skin cushions my lips as if to say

I’m glad you’re here