seeing double

forever fascinated by the poster of everything
ever wrong with an eye:

 

snuffed lantern, cat-like mutation, cataract
in the river sense of the word—

 

i haven’t cried in months. my head is a stable
for dumb horses with their heads down.

 

over and over someone teaches me
that pigs are carnivorous;

 

you can get an apple in every season
except for macintosh.

 

my skin is so sweet and thin
anyone could bite right through me.

 

and i keep stuffing my wrists in
people’s mouths right when i meet them,

 

like a man on the street with a clipboard,
do you have a moment to talk

 

about my trauma? everything gets
to be a metaphor for the body

 

when i’m sad like this. the eye doctor
tells me i’m tall for a girl

 

and clicks through blurry
versions of the world. tell me

 

which is better. i try too hard
to tell the two apart.


p. hodges adams is a poet and playwright from a small town in Michigan. Currently, they are an MFA candidate at the University of Virginia. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in New Orleans ReviewArkansas International, Pine Hills Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Bombus Press. They were a finalist for both the 2021 Connecticut River Review Experimental Poetry Prize and the 2020 Graybeal-Gowen Prize for Virginia Poets. Hopefully they will transform into a beam of sunlight someday soon.