A Poem by Rebecca Kokitus


previously published in Rising Phoenix Review

a ghost in the kitchen window mistaken for me

born with miner’s black fingers, witch’s green thumb / born from the swamps like Venus from the

sea / with bog scum beneath your fingernails

grew up playing dress-up / with cheap eyeshadow and stubborn dirt of the land

mostly scar tissue / mostly ingrown past selves

show me the origin of tragedy / the home like a freezer where you leave your heart / when you

run to the city / where mother props it up on pillows / with your stuffed animals and

unopened mail

show me the moment you first confused disease for art / forever sallow as a smoker’s wallpaper /

because you just wanted to be more than wallpaper

dyed red hair hangs down your back like fake flame / made of cloth and light and air / that

they can touch and feel like god

sometimes I want to drive until the fields unfold / like a patchwork quilt on my childhood bed /

and I can burrow inside and become you again / sometimes your coal ash aura catches the light

like dust / and I want to beat it out of you / like an old rug

Rebecca Kokitus is a poet residing in the Philadelphia area. Her poetry chapbook, Blue Bucolic, will be published in 2019 by Thirty West Publishing House. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram and @rxbxcca_anna, and you can read more of her writing on her website: https://rebeccakokitus.wixsite.com/rebeccakokitus.