by Astrid Brigwood
My gums swelling, my teeth
dandelions from the coffee, gnawed
by the years I spent deprived and acidic
bitter like the first born, lying like half-life.
I spend every morning pouring over warnings
delivered on the petal lips of saints, towers of glass
collapsing, earthquakes down to the molten core
bodies piling up in Central Park, rivers running with fire.
Call it paranoia but I prefer miracle, gifted
with holy knowledge, plague and pestilence,
black bile in my mouth. Stolen from me in whispers
Laughing as I fall, palms clutching at cracked cement,
begging or mourning. I pry secrets from that
weed-split asphalt, better augury than God’s will in
entrails. Prophecy read with dripping-guilty
honeyed tongues powder-white from cyanide.
Language is famine in my throat, empty words
a bloodbath. Broken promises dog me, mirrors
betray oracle-heavy omens; awful truths from my eye’s revenge-red
Astrid Bridgwood is an eighteen year old poet from North Carolina with a love for punk and playing guitar. Astrid’s work focuses on her struggle with body image, mental health and girlhood. You can also find her featured in the Summer 2020 Issue of Peregrine Mag, and on Twitter @ivymedusa.