Two Texts

Amanda Raczkowski


and if my car makes this turn
    I will cease to exist.
I called you artifice-head (knowing that the
addition of the word head makes any other
word derogatory) while watching the movie?

Why does quiet not suit you?

She said deciduous—I can not think
in terms of line breaks (evident by my previous work).
I want to go back to my deciduous forest. This heat is too much for my skin.
My sun-baked flesh does not smell as I wished it would.

and if I close my eyes
    you will not be able to see me.


Like my knee after tripping over my own
feet. Purple is plum. Purple is crayon. Purple is
purple. I want one word to break my heart.
    My thoughts stop with a dime.
Remember the girl who played Bloody Knuckles
with the boys at their desks? Paper clips, paper,
and pencils with smears on false wood. What was
her name? Maybe—
    The boy at the bookstore has noticed
my muttering of hate.
    He feels it necessary to comment.
    I change the word to teeth.
In sleep I state;
    Although Elizabeth means Chubby Checker
in a different way then everyone else means Chubby
    I have no need to question the girl.
See; Elizabeth working Monday to Friday. Tuesday
    she wears a turtleneck sweater. Tugging repeatedly
    she comments, “I feel like Mother made me wear
    this, but I took it from the closet.”

Amanda Raczkowski is Co-Editor of Caketrain Journal and Press. Her work has appeared in Controlled Burn, Loop, Poetry Motel, and elimae.