by Christopher W. Clark


I speak in my mother’s voice because

she can’t, fill the space in my head

with emblems made from wardrobes

and dresses I slept in. The half-ring

on wood meant thump-thump-thump

would burn my skin. Now I’m inside

a mirror, a square of light eats me whole.


Christopher W. Clark (@chriswillclark) reads, writes, and teaches things. Their poems have featured in various publications including The Cadaverine and Ink, Sweat, & Tears. They have collaborated with The Royal Philharmonic Society and photographer Mick Frank among others. They are currently working on a chapbook and full-length novel dealing with the intersections of class and queerness.




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