Rewind from the cicatrix—you know what? Screw it.
Pull the rug out from under my retro daze, pull the tape out,
all of it, unspool this VHS metaphor and hit me quick with
an inspirational quote from Facebook: Everything not of love
is being pushed to the surface for healing. Thank you. Now,
give me a Vesuvius-sized, sloe-eyed nurse to bury me—
our ashes intermingling. I do not want to be alone. I do not want
to be left to dangle over that cortisol-constructed cliff because:
the scar. Because they tell me that to be alone is not natural,
because I fear that it is and it isn’t, that it is always and never
all the (there is no such thing as) time—the clocks beg me for meaning
like little dogs’ eyes; the numbers change whenever they blink.
I’m sick of this galaxy even though I crave the Greek: from gala, milk.
Warm from the stove, soothing—still, I can’t stomach its tangibility.
Emily Skov-Nielsen recently completed her MA in English and creative writing at the University of New Brunswick. Her work has been previously published in CV2, The Fiddlehead, and The Malahat Review. She also has poems forthcoming in Prairie Fire. In 2014, she was nominated for The Malahat Review’s Far Horizons Award for Poetry.