LAST CALL
by Leah Yacknin-Dawson
I prayed as I do every night
by yoking flame to spliff
against a bathtub claw. Lord O
Lord please let my brain dry
out. Smooth as silk against my
for instance, eardrums, which aren’t sharp
in the bath. I submerge the pinna, stirrup
clog the anvil & auditory canals until I hear
my own rhythm, my freaked heart
my freaked-ass heart thumping only
as the ocean, as an accordion played on open air.
I find myself on the way back
on the way back I find myself.
My hideous loins, unkempt unclaimed,
cadence like a half-drained battery.
The joke goes, How do you want to die?
I’ll choose the bath, the silk pulled tight
across my eyes mm that good/good
mm that bliss/bliss. Sweet hot nescience.
Is this the point of sheep’s wool, Lord?
At La Colombe one time you know that
one tree limned with daymoon I saw a
man gift his son one pastry and say,
This is for praying for
your nana.
The only way I want to die is before
everyone I love. Since that has not
worked out I guess I’ll swim, lighting
the spliff, smoothing the silk,
praying O Lord, and convincing
you I am enough
for a short amount of time.
Leah Yacknin-Dawson is a writer from Pittsburgh, PA. She earned her MFA from the University of Texas at Austin, where she was the recipient of the Fania Kruger Fellowship. Leah’s work has appeared in StoryQuarterly, Greensboro Review, Hobart Pulp, Yalobusha Review, and more. She reads around Chicago and helps lead monthly poetry workshops at PO Box Collective.