After Siaara Freeman
Age: Old as water. The ocean’s in my cells, you know. The rain too. The water in those half-empty bottles in your room. Ancient. Last week. This morning. IDK, it’s all the same.
Sex: A bass riff. All the time. Syrup. First light. January sun. Sheets on the floor, french toast in the morning. Both and neither. Just making the train, door closes behind you.
Height: Taller than they want me. Not tall enough. Also see stretches of highways, apple trees, library stacks. The straw in your iced coffee. The streetlight that flickers only in the summer.
Weight: Space, everything and nothing at the end of the day. But also every pebble, seashell, crackle of fire. The sum of experiences. Tell me the coefficient of friction between ages 23 and 27 and I’ll tell you my exact Cartesian coordinates—x, y, and z.
Skin color: Frost on sand, churning tides. Pink, but only when I burn my neck with the curling rod (for real). The fog on the hills. The second after you blow out birthday candles.
Eye color: Hydrangea. Denim. A feather off the hyacinth. Entry way for ice fishing. Rivers at dusk. Roofs of Parisian apartments. Where the dragonfly skips off the surface of the pond. The sparkle off of the disco ball– ha!– there is light.
KATIA MATYCHAK is a Baltimore-based poet, and is still influenced by her Ukrainian and Appalachian upbringing. As scientist by trade, she must look at everything under a microscope. She likes drinking too much coffee and staying up way too late.