poetry, summer 2025
280 to ithaca
On the way upstate,
my mother at war with the GPS.
They don’t sound human, so I read
the directions I printed out. Spread the map
we bought at a rest stop on the dash
before us. Trace the blue lines of the tracks
cross-country with my index finger.
It’s a weird blue, faded like the smudged earth
tattoo on her shoulder blade. It was cheap
and her skin was stretched. Her arms hang slack
against the wheel as if she’s been driving forever
instead of a decade. They’re toned from churning
mulch in her garden. Time carved
out muscle. She turns to me, “What’d you say?
What’s the exit?” and the sagging sun
catches her turquoise nose stud. It threatens falling
through the hole. She used to have a hoop,
but she has a job again. The light cuts in
just below the sun visor and she squints, pronouncing
the groove between her eyebrows. “Exit thirteen. 20 miles
‘til you have to change lanes.” She frowns,
marring the regal calm of her profile.
She probably has to piss again. Even after
the surgery, she always has to, the phantom weight
of her womb sitting heavy on her bladder.
Her stomach is puckered like a silk blouse
gathered by a loose thread.
coin
after Storyteller
The morning glories that summer sent
wilt in the window of the log house,
their scent dulled by cold. The snow outside
is gray and hard as river stones,
but a path has been worn away,
carved through to the red door. Ravens peck at the roof,
thin tin cans pounded flat. For breakfast, dry fish
and corn soup in the dark room. She eats slow,
lowering the spoon into the bowl
gentle as a casket. Presses the kernels against
the side until they split. The tundra is frozen over
and soon it will return the dogs
and machines and copper-haired men.
Winter’s breath clings to her neck
as she walks and thinks about lies and red
and how all men are the same underneath.
Skin cannot hide them.
They are red just the same.
In the dark of a long winter,
the moon is a bright coin
cradled in God’s palm. She is steeped in red.
She wants to be clean. She wants a warm drink,
to take back what she’s owed. She wants
to sever. To be separate, like heads cut
from fish. To be rooted,
like river grass.
sebastian bronson boddie
is a nonbinary New Jersey poet who is attempting to understand themself and their world. They love coming-of-age films, taking walks around the block, and their cat, Cow. Their work has been published in B O D Y, like a field, and Obsidian, and is forthcoming elsewhere. Find them at @hugmosh on Instagram or @piscessstellium on Twitter.