To microwave nachos by herself. Not tie shoes
very tightly. Empty her mouth of lyrics in Spanish
in the shower, anywhere that matters
to not be alone, not go to the basement
after dark. Layer chokers at the neck and graphic
novels in a tie-dye backpack. Her awkward legs
are like a stork who did not bring her here.
Is the world a playground or vice versa?
Someone tags her, teaches her a lay-up,
she texts at night to ask something and
it’s all emoji, all nosebleed or stubbed toe
and lost library book. She asks to be tucked in,
asks so very much. Her sleeves are three inches
too short, at least. To try eyeliner, make a powerpoint
full of random fonts and copy-pastes, to learn
fractions. I could never distill numbers. But she is
the better parts of me, undisputedly. I know it wholly.
–
Katy Luxem lives in Salt Lake City. She is a graduate of the University of Washington and has a master’s degree from the University of Utah. Her work has appeared in Rattle, McSweeney’s, SWWIM Every Day, Rust & Moth, One Art, Poetry Online, Appalachian Review, and others. She is the author of Until It Is True (Kelsay Books, 2023).