regenerate
 
I want to grow antlers 
to lose in combat  learn patience 
and humility  attempt androgyny
like those boxes of memories
in the attic covered in decades 
of dust and bat guano  I need to clean
my ears  study the q-tip 
decide if there’s anything worth saving 
or if there’s only trashy thoughts 
repressed into wax-like sap
lacking maple’s sweetness  I want
to identify trees by the accents
of their whispers  know intimacy
like salamanders swim 
with new limbs or rainbow trout
taste shadows  crayfish don’t care
what you call them so long as 
they’re allowed to live purely 

Mother Tongue
 
The tongue that your mother put into your head
As you rocked in your cradle so soundly.
Spectral surgery she performed: 
Fleshy muscles and slimy veins sewn to your throat.
The dancing language twines with your attempts to tame it.
Tripping syllables hide among uncertain emphasis.
Cement lips when you try to speak, 
Wishing words were like milkweed seeds that could slip past your jaw. 
Does your mother tongue do acrobatics?
Curl and flex and press to form the simplest sounds?
Perhaps it is only trying to find a way to escape. 
From that crib, use your mother tongue 
To say Dada first.
Even biology is ironic. 

Sarah Lapean hails from Vermont and attends Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts. She is pursuing a double major in English and Psychology. She enjoys knitting, kayaking, and baking cakes. 

Like a Pistachio
 
Consider something as fragile as a pistachio shell
At first, still locked to its moon-color
counterpart, it may hang loose, open to losing
its one green earring. Even if the pocket feels
secure, like a fly between seam and button
fingers can easily pry it open with one chipper 
pop! Much less violent and silly to peel an orange 
 
A smattering of halves imitates a broken heart
If we were giants, they could imitate units of wind
Cribs for ants, shelves for beetles, dog bowls for mice
Who are the mice’s dogs? Love, often disguised
as a pet, is its own meager sustenance 
We feed it, sleep with it, take it out to piss, yet it almost always dies 
before we do. When it gets sick, we put it down
 
Push pistachios down a hill and listen to their caroling
They sound like pebbles playing in a child’s hand 
or a gumball machine freeing colors. Eating
we are tongue-tied for once because we’re full 
not empty. But they can bang like gunshots, too many
kind words to a headache, or taste like dirt bombs
hair grease, and eyeballs too sore for midnight
 
Ears flicker, eyes flutter, ankles bend to catch the light
My Q-tip tongue licks the salt from paper boats
while Mother asks if I love him, and no
matter how hard I try, I cannot glue the shells back together
to repeat their function. They’ve been handled 
by toes or eyes, not an expert’s touch, not a sculpture
of the stars, one bright, hot thing on every block

The Names of Saints 
 
The ones I remember: caramel-crested 
fields of wheat along the highway, 
Saint Jean, the sun, the smack 
of diving boards, a full stomach, 
my stuffed rabbit’s ears, Saint Cecilia, 
her blood collected on napkins, 
Saint Theresa, the neighbor’s daughter 
toddler-dancing in the grass, 
Saint Francis and his animals, 
the cotton collar on a windbreaker 
I hid under when it stormed, Saint Sebastian, 
his body in a Roman sewer, 
my dad’s calloused hand, a lullaby 
cassette tape my mom played before bed, 
Saint Mary, orchids, chicory, 
the squish of worms under rain boots, 
my baby cousin smiling, Saint James 
the Less, the wrinkles in the church carpet, 
the pictures my brother drew 
in hymnals to make me laugh, 
Saint Joseph with hair like my grandpa 
because they share a name. 

Ambivalent
 
I’m learning how to live both ways.
That is, with intense doubt and
Uncontainable joy— 
The kind that comes out in bursts of laughter 
That can’t be explained
As anything I’ve asked for or earned.
I haven’t asked for it, 
Or anything for that matter
But here are blurred skies,
Pop songs, an unprecedented love of succulents,
So many kinds of plastic,
Backpacking for fun,
And the sun (what is the sun?)—  
One day, I was hiking with my sister and a friend
We stuffed our mouths with blueberries
And I almost spewed them onto the forest floor
From laughter.
There’s a picture of it: sunburned face, cheeks dimpled and bulging with berries
And the blur of my hand ready to catch them 
In case they flew out.

Measuring
​
A hop, skip, and a jump
across mason jars that connect us 
in the kitchen, your aprons have never 
matched mine. I always see if we can throw 
spoonfuls of sauces across the island 
to each other. I think we should constantly 
be testing the laws of attraction
and of fate. When we sleep sometimes 
I pretend you’re someone else
so when we wake up I can’t lie 
to myself before I look at you,
so I can’t prepare what I feel. 
I need that one renewed, fresh second 
of feeling, seedling of truth before 
we start to scatter spices on counter tops 
throughout the day 
and finish each other’s recipes. 

Offer Kindness

​When you tell someone
to go fuck themselves
you should be willing
to be more constructive.
Offer diagrams.
Suggest state-of-the-art
stretching regimes.
Share your favorite
genital enhancements.
Go the extra mile
to support their success.

Pollination

Among the summer green
                          we walk with adolescent
palms picking honeysuckle and sharing
                                           our sweet. He picks the good
 
ones for me and tells me to lick
                              the nectar. We race
to the house and back, catching
 
our breaths, faces
                                 blushed, and golden
 heat. 
                                            I remember
 
the backyard trail and its dust: 
the dirty taste
 
in my mouth. I wonder what we 
                            said on those walks, our prepubescent
legs carrying sweat and grime. I give him 
                             a bracelet that says sexy and run 
 
away, far too young to commit
                            to such a statement, far 
too shy to admit
                            I want to.

On Laughing Woman with Ice Cream Cone
 
He was this little guy
with a camera
Reflection faint
in the window
Claimed he only photographed
Beautiful Women
a cement mixer
churning
promise of fame
invitation for drinks
and that’s when I laughed