Author: Chloé Cunha

Chloé Cunha is an aspiring poet and screenwriter, even though both of those things can often seem contradictory. She first discovered a love for poetry at Bar 13’s louderARTS while living in NYC. Though she deeply misses the constant throb of panicked sirens and the bevy of skunky dives, she is happy to have since moved back to her native hometown of Cambridge, MA. By day she is a hippy-dippy first grade assistant teacher, and by night she is probably asleep at the bar.

Swim.

I don’t understand this com-
pulsion for summer skin,
the pull of sweat and release,
your armpit creased slick
against my hammer-
head muscle, the hard arc
of my jaw.
A mouth full of
shallow-water sharks
aching for some sun-knotted
surface to break into.

Still, I welcome the sinking;
become your deodorant so
you’ll smell my stink
when the heat
flushes hard into you,
when the heat rises
like steam from your lips.

Belly Lip Smack

“I’ll eat lightening bugs till they all hum at once and my belly fills with light.”
            — Anonymous, bathroom graffitti

light is a particle and a wave
like a swarm of army ants
waves and waves of them
collecting in the spoon of
my collar. The soup of my
skin is glowing, they tell me
they tell me I’m glow-
stick I know it’s dyna-
mite. I know I might
explode. It’s the pants-on-
fire-ants they’ve made me radio-
active. They’ve made me radio,
the dumbstruck hum
of it. Oh, horror honey tastes
too sweet for me. Oh honey
how sweet. How sweet to think
of me when your belly
sings full with fury.