leap year

by Elizabeth Galoozis
If only I could stop my mouth
the way I do my hands—
in fists in gloves in pockets—
but it keeps going, like the month,
a little longer than it should. 

I’m standing in the grimy heart
of Kenmore Square, 
my fingers squirming in their separate rooms. 
Above its darkened glass,
the porn store announces itself:

Its promise of aggressive warmth
is not unattractive at the moment,
the surfeit of all my own words 
hanging over me. For once, 
I’d like to live within the shut-mouth,
unequivocal boundaries of the flesh. 

About the author

Elizabeth Galoozis’s poems have appeared in Air/Light, Sundog Lit, RHINO Poetry, Call Me [Brackets], Sinister Wisdom, and elsewhere. She serves as a reader for The Maine Review and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She works as a librarian and lives in southern California. Elizabeth can be found on Twitter and Instagram at @thisamericanliz.

next up...

It is Not true

by Joseph Byrd