To bring yourself back from the dead you need flour, to start.
Rather a lot of it, and tallow candles,
with fat from the butcher. Mention my name — I loved him once,
but there's a reason you don't hear ever-afters
about butchers. Avoid lingering,
chitchat. Avoid eye-contact. Avoid the fine red meats,
Flour, milk, butter, sugar, eggs, salt,
yeast. Wait 2 hours.
Push down, let rise one more hour.
Let it catch up to you after sixty soft minutes,
let it walk behind you like a frightening thing in the dark,
let it breathe you in and fill your thin skin out,
let it end and begin you completely until, the final minute,
the final, final minute,
still life with two apples,
let it be standard дрожжевое тесто,
turning aureate in the oven.
A gold ring, a yellow liferaft.
Sonya Vatomsky is a Moscow-born, Seattle-raised feminist poet and essayist whose work appears in No Tokens, VIDA, Hermeneutic Chaos, Bone Bouquet, and elsewhere. She edits and reviews poetry at Fruita Pulp & her chapbook MY HEART IN ASPIC is part of Porkbelly Press' 2015 line-up. Find her online at sonyavatomsky.tumblr.com and @coolniceghost.
no baby but the poem is about you
Number three star: Fast years
a sonnet from 555
What is "Emoji"?
The Nether as Pizza Parlor