By Samantha Mackertich
I lick the mayflies from her lips,
let the wings catch in the crooks
of my teeth and buzz until
my tongue is numb. My palate
shapes the word Sophie into a hand-
shake as my name stales—toothpaste
crusted on the sink. I leave her
hanging. She turns on the tap.
She prods the pockets of my throat
with a narrow finger and pinches
my prepared speeches. I beg
her to press harder, snap
the cords, stain my teeth
a rusted, cracked red that bursts
up and out of my veins.
She licks the insects from her lips.
I had thought she would have
waited, but I cannot say that I will.
I let the wings of her mayflies linger
and dissolve into the cuts in my cheeks.
Samantha Mackertich is a junior at Walnut Hill School for the Arts in Natick, MA, and is a creative writing major. She has been published in the Síbliní Art and Literature Journal, attended the Breadloaf Writing Conference in Vermont, and was a finalist for the Helen Creeley Poetry Prize. Her favorite form of poetry is free verse in couplets. She also enjoys writing screenplays, short stories, and plays.