My Memory Is the Mirror You Breathe On
guilt-tripping onto
blood-gilded knees
i’m golden, gaslit & gleaming
i think i saw you in a dream
i mean, i think i might have dreamt
every bad thing you ever did to me
(still all the animal in me runs from you—
my heart a stampede of rabbits & deer)
my heart is the meadow where I eat my mind
slowly,
in spongey sections of fruitflesh
& you love its bitter scent on my breath
i can’t taste anything else
Aimee Lowenstern (she/her) is a twenty-six year old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and a chihuahua. Her work can be found in several literary journals, including The Wild Umbrella and Kicking Your Ass Magazine.
