I can conjure my own flowers

Savannah Slone

I’m just a creature who hates the word panties. whose autopsy proclivities display imbalance, a dusty excavation. who says amen at all the wrong times. an injured fleck of hollowed gold. a forbidden lover. an anticipated presence. who will halt in submission out of, what some call, politeness. whose lingerie looks best folded, tucked away. who contracts autonomy through self-portraits painted after midnight. whose seams are rusting. whose cellulite is spreading. whose handwriting is hurried scratchings. whose under eyes are like attics, are like formations of tender hums. whose bound mutings are like mantras. who wants you to cremate me. who still wants a headstone.


Savannah Slone is a queer writer who is completing her MFA in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry and short fiction has appeared in or will soon appear in Glass: A Poetry Journal, Crab Creek Review, FIVE:2:ONE, Pidgeonholes, decomP magazinE, Crab Fat Magazine, TERSE, and elsewhere. She is the poetry editor of Boston Accent Lit and is the editor-in-chief of Homology Lit. She is the author of HEARING THE UNDERWATER (Finishing Line Press, 2019). She enjoys reading, knitting, hiking, and discussing intersectional feminism. You can read more of her work at www.savannahslonewriter.com.

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