By Alex Stolis
it will have razor blades & box cutters,
clenched jaws, Jesus’ initials carved
inside thighs then X’d out.
It will have straight arm punches & blood,
blood in the needles’ track,
blood in porcelain basins,
blood from fingernails bitten to the quick.
To be alive is to be wet; damp with breath,
sopped with love, a river with no banks.
To be alive is to feel wind prowl across
a field; to listen to the lavender hiss of rain.
We write suicide notes on hundred dollar bills
on rainbow Post-Its,
on paper towels
on starkwhite blank-faced pages;
we climb safety barriers, jump guard rails,
load guns, & practice tying hangman knots,
smokedrinkshootsnort our way in the dark.
To be alive is want. Is to be. Is to borrow pain,
to be thieves without breaking the law.
To be alive is to be a reckless bird in uneven skies,
to become a seed buried deep in scorched earth.
Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, 2024 by Bottlecap Press. His full-length collection, Bombshells, Bozos & Bastards is forthcoming from alien Buddha Press. He lives in Hudson Valley of New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.