V.S. Ramstack

Three Poems

maybe we use our imagination in relation to what we have lost

i wore the same underwear 

for the third day in a row

smelled the crotch discreetly,

pulled it from between my lips

as i ran to the bathroom to make sure 

the line left was clear, not viscous

i know the insides of me cleanses

the outsides of me, still stains

the parts hiding, the parts peaking like frost 

now rubbing itself clean from the windows 

while the trees are watching

sometimes it is me who is inside and watching

the metaphor here could be fish

climbing the slant of a bedroom wall,

hooking their teeth into the flaking asbestos 

crying for water or something like it

an open window in pisces season

& if someone put their hands on you 

i would want to tell them first

i would want to tell them the way 

your eyes move in the nighttime

like breathing flowers

maybe it became a sin the moment i wanted

your hands circling mine, slight throat, 

hip indent, a little bit of god in the hallways

so i’ll whisper back about deserving & the way

i can get out of hand with big regard 

to how we’d speak to each other as children

& it was my head on your shoulder

and a bottle, and a bottle, and candid kindness

wisteria blooming at my feet

for now i find

i said: don’t add any stitches after

you take out the shards

said: don’t eat the kindling if it doesn’t

go toward a verb 

you cannot remember anymore, but

i’ll be watching

             the moon in your mouth – you like                               how

it feels against the molars, root canal cap – click clack

                           i wish i knew what it feels like to 

                                         have this song                                                               sing itself anyway

             a satiable   oh& 

                          holding skin against skin to

swallow this now edible moon awake in the

light that is         its glow up, get a smidgeon closer

today i will try harder 

today, said my spine,

(it was talking to me, said)

such little violet flowers 

they were going off        & blooming

V. S. Ramstack (she/they) is a poet breathing in Chicago. She received a BA in English + Gender, Women, & Sexuality studies from University of Minnesota and an MFA from Columbia College Chicago. Previous work can be found in Posit, Uppagus, DIALOGIST, Across the Margin, and elsewhere.