Mariah Rose
Sweetwater
The dogwoods are flowering. Petals a snowdrift, tissue that sticks to my heels, trails across the living room floor. Pollen dust and mud smear. My hair smells like woodsmoke my mouth tastes like copper—cabernet in a mason jar. I pick lint from the laundry, curdled and grey and worming. I feel like I’m married (here is the church, here is the steeple) I’m growing soft in the middle, belly like putty. I draw myself, nude. Bury my nose in that freckled space between your shoulder blades, kneading the skin like dough. Fingers sticky with your honeydew.
Honey, do.
—Submitted on 05/06/2020
Mariah Rose publishes an annual zine called Boy Tears Mag. Her work has been featured in Apiary, Hyphen, Yikes, 5×5, Medusa’s Laugh Press, and other journals. Rose lives in Philadelphia, where she is a music journalist.
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