Carissa Callison

 

 

 

Parting Out

The body is like a car, and if you don’t use it, it dies.
I spent too much time in my head, body puttered out,
became just parts to be junked out

My 3rd grade teacher pickles my brain like blue ribbon cucumbers
carefully planted and nurtured.

The first riding instructor I had carefully separates
heels from feet, mounts them like the trophies in my childhood room.

In a dirty paper sack writhe my newly found vocal cords
carried by the man who also ripped out my first set.

My right hand clutches a pen in a lavender filled glass jar,
and is spirited away by fairies, or maybe the English professor
who taught that hand to write; I never could tell them buy ultram online overnight apart.

Atop crystals in a wine glass perch my eyes,
my father claiming the part of me that undoubtedly came from him.

My crooked middle finger is plucked by the dear friend
who endured many drunken fuck you’s, shot glass
and Everclear waiting to preserve those moments forever.

As each part of me disappears like wedding cake I’ll never taste,
my quivering heart sits alone, unclaimed.
Maybe it’s what I’ve always wanted and never realized;
a heart and consciousness free of that awkward shell.

 

 

Carissa Callison was born and raised on the wet side of Washington. She attended the University of Montana Western and received a BA in biology. While in college, she rediscovered a passion for words and hasn’t looked back.

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