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Laura Ingram Apr 2015
The only Korean I know is
I’m sorry.
And sometimes, if I try to remember,
You had the heels of your hands anchored to my creaking shoulders indefinitely.
You told me the truth,
That I was subatomic
Something too small to see—
The skinniest girl in the world.
You carried me across cul-de-sacs on rainy Saturdays so my shoes wouldn’t get soaked.
I wish I wasn’t the color of a magazine.
I wish you hadn’t slipped and dropped me in cement.
This body is as burdensome as broken English.
I am learning my skin like a second language.
I hope you can understand.
Laura Ingram Aug 2014
Birds of Prey
mother birds throw up their food to feed their young,
only to grow old before they fly.
we all have someone that we want to feed.

Why is it not seen as a sickness
for women to reject themselves
in order for others to grow?

fourteen, long-***** and listless
I have not yet bled.
I mistake this for a sign that I am safe.

My ribs feel like a small host of sparrows
shielding their eyes from the cumbersome sun.
I convince myself
the cold still doesn't bother me enough
to be the first of my kind to consider migration.

I scrunch my eyes shut in the early hours of the morning,
sure that I hear the light rap of god's knuckles against my hipbones
in this hollow house.
my bed seems bigger than before.

I am an apparition of absolute zero.
tracing the tessellated tile grout
I can't remember the last time I prayed like an apostle
Head tilted toward something I don't want to see
shins sliced by the slick linoleum surrounding the toilet
although I don't look a thing.
Like a follower of Jesus.
I did not ask you
to love me and love me
until you were empty too.
behind closed doors and an open notebook again.
but when you cry in the night and call my name
Instead of shutting my eyes.
I open my mouth.
so I can find an answer.
Laura Ingram Apr 2013
She watches the global white of her knuckles
Whispering every name she knows.
“I came for you.”
Her voice inked up and tapering off, a hasty revision between alphabetical breath.
She is in order, and smells of snowy television.
Throwing up in the front yard at three A.M.
They could never quite bring themselves to tell her she’s beautiful.
But she stands in awe of the swarming sun, allowing it to cleave her conscious.
And carries spiders outside in paper cups.
Sometimes grappling cities to feel the graffiti swerve through her fingers.
Saturdays are best spent behind the books, winter’s used light left to knock around under her eyelids.
All her windows open in honor of Anne Frank
Laura Ingram Apr 2013
The yellow stars trudge into my tertiary dreams,
Flay one eye open, the other stagnant
Amongst someone else’s half-sleep.

The note sung by the SS’s shoes, sharp enough to shatter
The insolent streets.

Electric litany
Conductors of the White Noise
A spectrum-skinned symphony,
I swallow my melting scream,
At the high end of eight, I am
Still afraid
Of thunderstorms, dragging a bunch of blankets to the basement

A friend of an old lover’s coworker’s cousin,
She is a supernova’s stomachache, stippled with the start of the interstellar.
Although Jews aren’t always this incandescent
She hands me stories through the keyhole,

Pirates whose sole means of sustenance is sugar cane,
Noble dragons and the crooked knights that are their neighbors,
Princesses who shave their eyebrows and keep live mice in their apron
pockets for luck

I am not allowed to cry, no matter how it ends.
Laura Ingram Dec 2012
I am Chicago’s ketosis
Carbon-dating myself in kilowatt hours
Aged on whatever it is that shines
But what about how she cries for me
Anchors my creaking shoulders
To a rough translation of skin,
It’s like if I eat I will feel all the calories siphoning the sockets inside my head, and I am trying my hardest to fend off the cold front in my throat, because it keeps me awake at night, knocking around beneath my bones.
72, 67, 54, well past zero
Integers of iridescence
Some off-white desiccation  
I am so sharp.
An apparition of absolute zero
But pictures of me still amount
To most of the metric system
You’re not good enough
Something’s wrong with you
Eyes like industry
Roving the asphalt flowers
She waits an hour for the ambulance to come,
Gracelessly slung through the cerulean city
The warping of our own white noise  and
Strapped to a plastic seat
Inebriated planets splayed
Through the this amber called earache
Until even her eyes are off their axis  
Although anorexia isn’t always this incandescent
Gaunt and gleaming
Her eyes always water
Electric roses
Crushed into the sidewalk cracks in case of another fall
Abrogated gracelessness
She answers most questions correctly
I am unsure
And writes me letters in black crayon
*Get Well Soon.
Laura Ingram Nov 2012
Arthritic as autumn, elliptical amongst my rheumatoids of rain
I have global bones, osteoporosis off its axis
Despite toppling stacks of postcards from places I will never partake in
I will always be
Virginia slim and wafting towards the indigo woods
If I were trained in cartography, I’d stitch the south out of mosquito netting and crumpled cigarette papers.
Come closer,  
This is how we say goodbye, pretending not to know.
Laura Ingram Sep 2012
We will measure the oil slick skyline in miles per hour, asking ourselves how often the Eiffel tower is lonely.
Crumbling bits of long-***** light between our fingers,
Together, we are the euthanasia of elegance.
Half past fifteen and I drive like an arrhythmia, the universe has been promised to my palms, it should have been you, it should have been you,  a secondhand hurricane halved, but maybe my skin is always overcast.
You are a constellation’s carcass, flaying open a second subconscious.
There is a certain rhythm to misremembering, but you always come to me clutching at the colors.
You are an estuary, stumbling, gracelessly slung into stillness, embalmed by the opacity of your own hands, yet you listen and understand and agree that grass is the incessant stole of decay, that someone has indeed replaced our vertebrae with tusks of summer, an illicit version of lunar lethargy,
and ten years from now we’ll still be cerebral as stars, drinking cold coffee and crying under the sink, keening amongst the early morning wreckage, the vernacular of Vesuvius.
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