By LILA SCHLISSEL
Mom said I was a hoarder like it was something
to be cured, jewelry boxes to be shaken out and become
Ricola-wrapper-rain clouds
for Ricola-wrapper carcasses
waxy paper skeletons that
gifted a small throat honey-coat sweet,
tongue dozing and knuckles sticky
They find me under princess pillowcases and
in dinky desk drawers, whispering their
wrinkly waltz to eavesdropping ears
I wake up with sugar-skinned teeth that
clack and trip over each other,
somersault across my tongue and reveal
skinned-knee gums
Reveal five tooth-shaped chasms with
roots like riverbeds,
silt mushy gushy and gums seaweed-swaying
They are the pomegranate seed patters
against the wood of my nightstand drawer,
scraping naked ink nib veins
against a hollow floor
Someone has gouged their thumbs into the root and
split each like an orange, pulling until it splintered,
spurting and stinging and slipping
beyond my cuff and
down a sugar-skinned wrist
I will find orange peels in hidden places,
under a gleaming button and feather that shines like oil slick
and throw them in the trash
But for now, the canines are sharp
against the grain of my drawer, are sharp
against the pillow of my tongue, are sharp
against a pill-tin floor
next to my Ricola wrapper collection.
Writer | Lila Schlissel ’27 | lschlissel27@amherst.edu
Editor | Mel Arthur ’25 | marthur25@amherst.edu