Mamma always told me to never
pick up goose feathers, despite
their beauty. They carried diseases
and in the end, they’d kill you,
slowly and gruelingly. But I couldn’t
evade their draw. Much like the
wetness of your lips or how
you tongue-twisted me
like a cherry stem. So I
picked you up and I brought
you home and I slowly slipped
into a nonexistence under the
tips of your fingers and the
earthy death of your bones.
Layla Lenhardt is founder and Editor-in-Chief of 1932 Quarterly. Her recent poetry has been featured in Brine, Third Wednesday, Belle Ombre, and Rag Queen Periodical to name a few. She currently lives in Indianapolis with her partner and three cats.
