I Blow Shit Up, It’s What I Do
I blasted a hole in a mountain’s flank
gouging a tunnel with charred stone walls
the width of a train
so I could escape.
I toppled two buildings on one narrow street.
The park there now has a lake and three swans.
There’s lilacs in planters
but children run free.
I aimed a sodium bomb at the heart
of a clog that grew from soap and dead hair,
birthing clear water
to hurtle away.
I placed a precision butterfly charge
gently between us, so tenderly shaped
it took you two days
to see I was gone.
If I Could Travel in Time
I would reassure myself at 24
Yes, you screwed up your first job.
You’ll have another shot at spreadsheet balancing,
let the shame fade.
And stay away from Doug.
Then I would remind myself at 48
when the memory of those sliced apples,
green and wet, is too vivid,
joy is a grease fire. So is pain.
Bread is sugar, salt, and yeast.
My next jump would be forward
to shake my 80-year-old self.
You’re too old to die young.
That knee grinds like an old ballerina.
Call the cat sitter and get the damn surgery.
I will hug my 13-year-old self too tight.
You’ll cry too long over that boy
who knows you like apricot soap,
but there’s someone coming who will buy you orchids.
Just stay away from Doug.
Sneaking ice cream to my 100-year-old self
I’d say: Ignore those frozen hips and blurry eyes,
smile past the memory of ancient mistakes,
that heart of yours came through. It’s been
a salty, yeasty loaf of bread.
When I was done with all that telling
I would tell myself not everyone
needs to know what I have learned.
Not everybody even wants to know.
At least that’s what Doug says.
Screw Doug.
Elissa Matthews
Elissa Matthews was born and raised in New Jersey, eventually launching on a journey of discovery and odd jobs, including bartender, cook on a prawn trawler, and cold-water SCUBA diver. She once again lives in New Jersey, twelve miles down the road from where she grew up. She has one published novel, Where the River Bends, and a collection of short stories, Bittersweet and Magic. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in several journals and anthologies.