three poems by brynn martin





In Daydreams I Violence Myself a New Body



I cut
just below
my belly
button. Three
slices create
a C shape,
a kind
of door
I can
swing open.
I loop
a finger
around
an intestine
and pull,
unravel
until I reach
the beginning.
I feed
intestine
through thumb
and forefinger,
squeeze
as I go,
massage
out half-
digested shit,
gut flora,
whatever lingers.
I twine
the length
back inside
then reach
up, scoop
out stomach.
I press
to deflate
it, bottom
to top,
and roll
the empty
to ensure
every bit
is out.
I set
my stomach
in place
again, feel
it unravel
below
my lungs.
With organs
back in,
I stitch
myself closed.
I dream
full, wake
hollow.



Driving the 753.7 Miles from Lenexa, KS to Knoxville, TN



I-435 FOR 23.3 MI

I think of my not-boyfriend’s tattoos,
     symmetrical on his wrists, chest.
          Two crosses, two lunar moths.

Wild sunflowers sway
at the state line sign post.

Billboard:

The Best Value in Wireless —Sprint.

*

I-70 FOR 248.9 MI

My tattoos are asymmetrical
     only on the left side—
          top of the foot, sternum, upper arm.
               Roman numerals, triangle, peony.

The soybean crop blurs
     on my left, then right.
Wheat crop blurs
     on left,                then right.
Cows blur left,                               right.

I wonder at the hazed edges
     of my life—a flash at the corner
     of my eye before I speed on.

Wind turbine lights syncopate
across a hilled ridge.

Bumper sticker:

Trump IS president.

*

I-64 FOR 75.2 MI

I am not in love
     with my not-boyfriend,
     only very lonely, and I text him
          from the half-way rest stop
          with clean bathrooms.
                    I wish you were here. I’m horny.

Glimmer of sunlight
on car frame.

Billboard:

Lion’s Den
Adult Superstore,
Next Exit.

*

I-57 FOR 47.3 MI

I’m so far from either home,
     Kansas or Tennessee.
          I travel the in-between.

A deer in rigor mortis
     on the shoulder, on its back,
     legs locked toward the sky.

Billboard:

Gun Superstore,
Exit NOW!

*

I-24 FOR 183.4 MI

Not-boyfriend replies:
                    I’ll see you when you get here.
     I have nothing to say.

A firefly flicks
against my windshield,
bursts a sliver of green
among other smudges.

Bumper sticker:

EAT A PEACH!

*

I-40 FOR 175.6 MI

I watch a semi-truck window open,
     fling out a cigarette butt,
          scatter tiny flecks of light
              across the asphalt.

Another deer, I think—
decayed hide wrapped
around a divider pole.

Billboard:

If you die tonight
Heaven or Hell?
1-855-FOR-TRUTH

Needlework



One friend I love buried
her herd of sheep today.
Their faces torn open
by coyotes, held only
by muscle and sinew.
The ram survived, just—
they sutured his jaw back on.
It healed, though askew.

Another friend celebrated a birthday,
all laughter and open mouths
in a bar’s neon haze.
Her dress strap broke
from the bodice and I pieced it
together with a safety pin.
She tucked the metal against her skin
so it wouldn’t show.

The air has turned chill and damp.
Instinctively, we draw in, start to shrink
our worlds. In the early dark,
I begin the slow work
of stitching something
—not back together, but
the needle punctures 
the fabric, brings floss through
to the other side. Let this restore
what’s threadbare and worn in me.



Brynn Martin is a Midwesterner at heart, but she has spent the last decade living in Knoxville, where she received her MFA in poetry from the University of Tennessee. She is an Associate Editor for Sundress Publications and the event manager for an indie bookstore. Her poetry has appeared in Contrary Magazine, Rogue Agent, FIVE:2:ONE, and Crab Orchard Review, among others.