Runny My grandmother’s recipe for sugar cookies contains no sugar. Something so vital meant to be missing. Us in crumbles. I tore away because I was afraid to set, to pour my body into a cake pan and let it bake. Now I’m runny. I melt over the sides of everything that tries to catch me. Now I’m small, tiny as in it wouldn’t matter if my body was chopped up and fed to pigeons. As in all the gods are too tall to hear me. All the shadows morph to mouths when I am tired. Always tired. I hunger for you with moon-pie eyes and little whimpers. The only caliber in which we understand each other. Will you hear me in morning? Will I want to speak?

#life Update Hi friends! I wanted to give you an update on my #life, and what I’ve been doing, and where I’m at. I’m a junior in my undergrad career, planning on going to grad school for creative writing. Of course, I’m still working on my poetry. About a year ago, I received my first publication in a national literary journal (The Indianapolis Review). Since then, I’ve been working on sending more #poems out to other lit journals for publication. My work has been published in the UK journal all the sins, and I have #poems forthcoming in the magazine Awkward Mermaid and SWWIM (aaah!). Since I’ve been sending out my #poems to these journals, I haven’t been posting anything on Opuss (no previous publications are allowed). I am so excited about where my #life is heading right now! If you want to stay updated on my #life, you can follow me on Twitter @samcanliftacar (I’m active on there, usually tweeting about my #life or concerts or poetry). I appreciate (and have appreciated) this community so much. You all have helped me grow into a better, more confident writer. I am so grateful for you. Here are links to some of my #poems: https://theindianapolisreview.com/woman-as-wet-collection/ https://allthesins.co.uk/issues-2/issue-8-meaning/i-cry-at-movies-now-samantha-fain/ https://allthesins.co.uk/issues-2/issue-8-meaning/after-the-astronomical-union-2006-samantha-fain/

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The Freudian Heart The only part of your mother that you own, that your cheeks can still root for when hungry for her flesh, that reminds you of those pureed peas, those nostrils caked in cocaine, those boning knives, your mother. Your mother, a boning knife, cutting myofilaments, your empty plasma, you leech, you blood-sucker. You can almost feel your umbilical cord tether. She can’t see your face, can’t understand your babble. Oh, Anna O., is this how you speak to your mother, spitting alien syllables even you can’t say twice? Chimney sweeping ashes off your eyelids, really seeing. Is this how you die? Look, brain: see what stories we can twist without anyone else’s tongue? How powerful we are on our own. Isn’t it funny how we can build gods and demons in one body and kiss both of their foreheads goodnight?