In hospitals, they have small pink trayshttps://i1.wp.com/barrenmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/MallinNeon.jpg?fit=1920%2C1897&ssl=119201897Mariel FechikMariel Fechikhttps://i0.wp.com/barrenmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/marielfechik.jpg?fit=96%2C96&ssl=1
for you to spill yourself into, stacked
neatly on the sideboard in the shape
of kidneys, softened sickles, the color
of rosewater, the color of blood in
water. In hospitals they also sometimes
have the shape of a small girl standing
in the corner, hunch of rabbit, color
of winter sky, color of wilt. I do not
remember molding myself in this way.
I only remember pale concrete meeting
my feet, the cold slap of March.
Mariel Fechik lives in Chicago, IL and works in a library. She sings for the bands Fay Ray, Moon Mouth, and Tara Terra, and writes music reviews for Atwood Magazine. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Bettering American Poetry, and has appeared or in Hobart, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Cream City Review, Yes Poetry, and others. She is the author of Millicent (Ghost City Press, 2019) and An Encyclopedia of Everything We’ve Touched (Ghost City Press, 2018).