By Rachel Corso
but I feel like cotton swabs
sardined in the hull of my esophagus.
I feel like the feet of a barstool
without the felt. I almost feel
like ponies. I feel slightly
off put, like little hooves slipping
on loose dirt. I feel like empty
coat hangers lining
a wooden rack. I feel like not driving
over mountains. I feel like refusing
to board an airplane back to Bali
with you. I feel like something even
New York would spit out. I feel like what
is a finger looped through a mug.