Selected Poetry by Avra Margariti
Photo Source: Pixabay
There is a garden
and in it we hang as fruits from a tree
peaches with their skin like the dawn
This tree is not one but many
a Franken-tree, if you will
a myriad different bough grafts twisting
and merging together
not strangling but staking
not a noose but a lifeline
from which we hang past wrongdoings
a bloodletting of nectar watering the sweet earth
with sour remorse
When it’s time for us to come down
the vines will twine into a stairway
the garden will explode in song
of lovers standing side by side
their hurts acquitted,
compressed into compost
to nourish hybrid roots.
Fissures traverse my stone thighs
my marble arms
my brick and mortar
a city crumbling, crushed
under time’s toxic tears
I may look dull in the sun
but under UV lights I flourish
my ruins fluorescent runes
writing and footstep echos
of those who once were
love notes on my walls
hearts pierced by arrows
bare bodies invisible to the naked eye
Warning signs flare
ray cats detecting radiation
it all looks rose pink to me
your insides glowing neon pink
through your jellyfish chest
come on, come over
rain another wave of destruction down
you know I love my marble pillars
wet and sticky with acid storms
Blessed Is the Final Girl
Whose daddy, star-and-moonshine drunk, showed her
How to fire a gun even if she almost lost a hand
Several times in the process
Whose mommy, breathing smoke like a graying dragon,
taught her to run and hide
where a killer’s
body and ego could not fit
Whose BFFs, beaded bracelets and colorful retainers,
died in the woods
way back in middle school
three lost girls’ souls in a trench coat
bequeathing her the will to survive
This final girl is the one most likely to make it out alive.
Perhaps she’ll get out
on her own two feet;
perhaps on a stretcher;
perhaps she’ll crawl
through rainslick mud
or roommates’ remains.
But she will get out nonetheless,
raised, blood embedded under the nail
like a blooming rose of spite.
Like Moths or Lovers
We put dried lavender in the pockets
of old sweaters
love confession woven
in each warp thread
simmering hate in the weft.
The powdery-winged moths
inside the wardrobe
grow to starved husks longing for the taste of
We air out musty armoire drawers
to keep the old lover ghosts at bay.
Their bodies brittle, dainty
as bleached phalanges, chipped teacups, or tear-swollen lace.
Their shadows keep
coming back for more
attaching themselves to what’s no longer here.
We dine on liquorice cough syrup and masochistic memory pâté
on crackers, crumbling on linen sheets.
We go to bed with bloated stomachs
and twitching fingertips.
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction, The Forge Literary, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Argot Magazine, The Arcanist, and other venues. You can find her on twitter @avramargariti.