person Tiffany Elliott, three poems

Tiffany Elliott was born and raised in sunny Southern CA and is currently a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing candidate at New Mexico State University. Her works explore issues of abuse, trauma, and how recovery and resiliency allow people to remake themselves. Her poetry has previously appeared in MUSE and Pacific Review and is forthcoming in Indie Blu(e)’s “We Will Not Be Silenced” anthology.

***

For Love

I cover you in ink, the flavor harsh
on my eardrum. I eat words
ten syllables at once as we fuck
atop stacks of forbidden newsprint.

I found you spelled in grease
between the library stacks, the stains
Rorschach images of birds, of vines,
of mice that notch books, of their feces,
of tulips pressed
between pages—they had their time,
they shed petals one by one
like woodlice.

We have two words left. I
lock the pair away
behind my bared teeth.

***

A Longing for

Does glass remember
its ancestry, blown
in waves over the Savannah or
trussed by turtles
egging the future
in pits. Curling the single hairy
root of a palm, does sand
question starlight—
so distant
from the burning
that transforms. Do stars
peek our moon
longing her weightless
embrace. I search those same stars
divining
the way your lifeline flows
through rivers and into
the Salton Sea fifty miles
from a buried
teacup shard where I
whispered
I will return
someday.
And in slanting
May sunlight, you
stood on Indian clay
north of the ravine, my
name floating the orange
scent of all the late blossoms
I will never pluck
again.

***

you heard his voice in

the fallen tree branch—a sign from God
to sell your home
as bark tore moth wings from your arm.
did your body already know
the tearing within? the sick cells
replicating, replacing, fireflies
sparking alveoli, the eternity
of wild lights at the edge of vision
and even when your vision failed the left eye,
you insisted on driving yourself,
drowning already, pneumatic
under the emergency room’s crimson glare.
did your body feel a loop drawn tight
like a lasso around a fly’s head?

***

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