Into Pulp Lakewater pushes at my ankles toes slicing an evanescent path I’m at an age where I think I’m at the age and I don’t imagine eyerolls where I sense time abrading my surface like this constantly moving water stones and minnows distort into segments molecules into a variety of atomic individuals two purple, no, one hairbrush, a plastic ball a swaying branch, leaves decaying the insides of my grandmothers’ fridges bubble and pop into shards of memoryThe second poem, “Scrap,” relates to my memoir of the same name.
One of my father’s magical monstrosities
