genesisSpring2016.pdf


10     genesis spring 2016

All my classmates write important things
to their ex-best friend, Jesus; they all seem 
deep and important, their nibs all too coagulated
with ink to actually say what they’re talking about, 

so we coat it in waxy ambergris, terribly poignant, 
hyper-extended metaphor, something like, 
“I am a square peg in a round hole,” 
when what you really mean is
I LOVE THE SENSATION OF ANAL INTERCOURSE
AND AS A MAN, I QUESTION WHAT THAT MEANS
FOR MY SEXUALITY, OR DARE I SAY,
WHAT WILL MY MOM THINK? 

That Metaphor Bullshit
Carie McMichael



genesis spring 2016     11     

You write about her eyes as if  they were the most 
intricate star scape, when what you really mean is
THERE ARE NO WORDS
to explain the observable destiny nestled in 
the spidery spokes of  her irises. 

You write about the sound of  your heartbeat resounding
loudest in your skull when what you really mean is 
YOU ARE TERRIFIED OF BEING ALONE WITH YOURSELF. 
Perhaps the solid tangle of  copper wire is not spool-able, 
which is what I scribble casually in some hollow margin
when what I really mean is
I AM TOO TONGUE-TIED, MY BRAIN IS TOO FRIED
to eloquently convey my fractured being. 

for other words to staple together in hope that someone
will understand the parts of  themselves that need shading in. 
You can’t describe Paris until you see it. 
You can’t describe a heartbeat until you feel it, 
but that never stopped anyone with a pencil and
something to write on.