The subject’s teeth too big to fit comfortably in her mouth. A tiny x scribbled on every surface. I cannot tell if they are for no or here. I like the subject well enough. I don’t understand why I don’t. Here is myself skipped two years ahead of myself. I see each of us as a goblin shark, all elongated outlines. The subject, then me, then myself. My forehead too warm to rest comfortably above my brow.
Sam Stebbins is a poet from Grand Rapids, Michigan. A recent graduate from Grand Valley State University, Sam enjoys listening to punk and wearing turtlenecks. To pay the bills, she writes about people who make wire refrigerator racks. Otherwise, she writes poems about insects, fruit, and maternal figures. Some of those poems have or will soon appear in Red Cedar Review, The 3288 Review, Riggwelter, and Cease, Cows.