In Bed I Want to Be a Man
Emily Garland
To enter
and be surrounded
instead of full. I want my head
to be brimming with yes, and good and this is amazing
instead of a thousand
other things. (Dishes, cat food, dishes, dog food
the sheets need cleaning, my soul
also needs cleaning, but how do you clean a soul?)
I want to fight the edge
instead of question (what am I doing this for?)
to build up more than (why isn’t this working?)
and why am I counting the ceiling tiles and wondering
if frogs worship the moon?
In bed I want to finish and know I’m finished.
To be done and set my lips
to someone’s forehead (yes there, it’s always good there)
and see the evidence. I was here; my body knows
what it’s doing.
Emily Garland is a queer, neuro-squirrelly poet from Regina, Saskatchewan (Canada-land). Wielding a dusty MFA from the University of British Columbia, and enough cosmic dread to fill at least two bathtubs, she procrastinates against novel revisions with poetry and flash fiction. Only recently joining the slush pile, her pieces can be found or are forthcoming in the digital pages of Dark Winter Lit, Rootsmoke, and The Fieldstone Review.