Meg Johnson

The Girl


“Girl, I can see you from a disss…tance… Baby. I’d get run
over by a car for you.” -A man across the street (Akron, Ohio)

I’m the girl with rocks
in her ballet flats. It doesn’t
matter what city I move to.

I walk.
Men shout.
Rocks in my shoes.

The mattress store in my
neighborhood says CASH
TALKS LOUD. I’m startled
when a plastic bag behind me
rustles in the wind. I’m floating
through cities. Internally groaning
at English professors who have
bands, but I smile politely because
they seem so gentle. They make
stray cats look like robbers. When I
see a stray cat, I cross the street.
​

Fascinatin' Rhythm


Somewhere between the moving
pianos, I could swear that I, myself,
was Eleanor Powell. In Wisconsin,
when you call for a cab, it often
arrives in the form of a minivan, the
vehicle ideal for transporting large
groups of college football fans. The
van will toss you around, and on your
way to the doctor, you’ll realize you’re
far from grounded. There are floating
pianos, but no scratchy taps and
certainly no lady-worn suits.
​

Repercussions of Glitter

                                          
I can’t say I’m surprised. A part
of me always knew I’d end up
flat on my back in a muddy forest,
clad only in Oksana Bauil’s pink,
fuzzy skating costume from the
1994 Olympics. Didn’t you know?
I missed my call time at the theater.
The dressing room, the make-up,
even the wings told me to get lost.
I spit on a piece of lighting equipment
and clicked off. Imagine my surprise,
ending up at Super Walmart, breaking
kitchen appliances. Snap snap like
my injured body. I could taste the
thuds, candy-sweet and metallic.
Like malt powder that’s also dirt.

Your Penis Hearts Me


Your penis talks
to me when you’re
asleep. It’s really an
old school romantic.
Love sonnets and
shit. It’s sweet, but
pretty weird. Like
when we’re on the
interstate and you’re
driving with one hand
and holding my hand
with the other. You
look at me with this
dopey smile, like
someone who’s
swallowed a handful
of codeine, and
say nothing.


 

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Meg Johnson’s poems have appeared in Slipstream Magazine, Word Riot, WTF PWM, Blood Lotus, Camroc Press Review, and others. Her poem “Free Samples” was nominated for Best of the Net. She is currently a poetry student in the NEOMFA Program, a teaching assistant at the University of Akron, and the poetry editor for Rubbertop Review. Prior to this, Meg worked for many years as a dancer, choreographer, dance teacher, and actress.