Decay of the Baby Bottle

By Amelia Pikovsky

i find myself floating

over the universe

moving through your endless bubbles.

i dress the darkness

in doll’s clothing

with a crown of dusty, pink death.

i catch myself breathing

not with the wind, but into broken, little instruments

where infants weep for mums & willows.

i listen for (Hands,hands) brushing

through secrets like sacred movements

where the roots of loathing cement the ritual.

i dance myself to a distorted dizzy

across brilliant blocks of nature

lifts an album of pressed arrogance & child suicide.

i rake up burnt embers with the memory foam

hope sheds like alligator skin over a partially conscious dream

with a fistful of feathers, another martyr is born.

i wake to myself cycling through the bathtub’s cyclone

splashing, crawling to a fleeting loyalty

scream not for the thunder, but for the silence it purges.

A. Pikovsky is a poet living in Philadelphia who is the child of jewish immigrants & began writing as a way to cope & digest trauma & cultures in conflict with each other. A. Pikovsky views poetry as an act of resistance/an act of love. IG: little_windmil