Author: Sarah Louise Conaway

Sarah Louise Conaway is a senior in high school and an illustrator for The Coalition Mag. Her work has been published in Uut Poetry and sp ce. She can also be found on Tumblr.


wondrous and beating and naked and
filling the porcelain with shit

and menstrual blood and impatient to be beaten
into the walls

i was born a white man drinking coke
and snorting it

unable to look mixed race children
in the eye, fleeing every palm-sized

farm town in my corduroys
while every heart pumping rusted

fluids mixed with alcoholic beverages
licks the ground

only to tolerate these sad,
retro designs

if my phone dies, then i, too,
shall dissipate,

into this smoking garden,
into this waxen earth

where i have already posted the rest
of my black skin inside a floppy disk


tomorrow , we become different people
and our names must fit us

throughout ,

and i am thinking something about
something never being the real thing

if the only constant change is constant
change , and if the real thing is only wheat and bone .

and now i am here i am reading I AM THE REAL THING
everywhere :

protruding bellies , men who write about women who love men ,
and dirty fingernails cupping unwanted lumps
on your chest

you , yesterday in flesh .
and i am thinking something about flesh

how it is always good , as a good containing thing
must be

and i am really the only real thing , here
wheat and bone and bones

cinnamon baby , writing HOW THE WHITE MEN

writing I AM THE REAL THING in this Ghetto (
the stretch of garnered land that’s killed itself , over and over )

and nothing like flesh .
this is just another mirror , looking at I G G Y , and everything

made of brass that looks nothing like it , relapsing
to the best place to feel like something gall ,

and bloodless .


The piece

was beautiful: Lady Di revealed

her breasts                          her bones

fell apart into my hands

like moth-kissed

wool and  skin  mere fiber

settling in my palm

as though it were the bottom

of the ocean                        I am

a pulp of you, convening Yangtze

bloody/orgy/whiskey, overflowing

with sadness