Stevie Belchak

There are days

the leaves read feverish and
my hipbones blush.
They fatten and sink in their
little horns.

*

I want the noodle of honey
I read once.
I could die to slurp that
odd noodle,
sinking my tea leaves down or
stuffing the honey bear
up.



There is something to tasting
like there is something to
touching--
the age of an avocado,
the flth of summer on a
tomato husk.
You have to feel one
wrinkle. 

*

I am erupted.
A hot spring, I shake
loose like a chair--
watch my hair grow out
its hay.

I wish I could go quiet
like a baby
river. 

*

I want to paint it red,
finger around the empty with
red paint--
my two red fingers
riding the lines,
brighting them. 

*

The light goes tinsel and
I thread a want--
speak you my hands. 

They say people like me river in myths
to simply water
their mouths. 

*

I am mad with snow, a truss
riddled with peach
skin. Look how I fur.
I think I want to
be less like the land
and more like
a girl wearing the land.
I want to die like a mineral and rise
midday. 

*

I earth a hate
and tree a
decadence--
if only for some chocolate
cake. 
   
Fork my tongue.
See how I glow. 

*

Juice is full.
I beat it like a plum,
beg for simple syrup.
Just some
sweet weight. 

--
Stevie Belchak divides her time between Northampton, MA, and San Francisco, CA. An MFA candidate at UMASS Amherst, she was a recent finalist for the Center for Book Arts Poetry Chapbook Contest (2018) and is a staff reader for jubilat.