Southern Marimba

By Carly Chandler

Fruit flies sizzle in the electric bug zapper
gnats gnawing on the rotting oranges
on the table. Caving in on themselves, mold blossoming
On valiantly persistent rinds.

Mama prays to the lampshades, keeping the 
light where it belongs. Mama prays to her skillet,
butter sizzling on its skin. 
I pray to the next phase, impossible and new. 

When the last word isn’t what I need it to be, 
how am I supposed to be any better than what came before, 
what note am I supposed to leave myself on
when the chorus doesn’t know the melody?

Fruit flies sizzle and dance in the humid summer sun. 
gnats gnawing on my skin in time with the beat.
I don’t look like myself anymore. Caving in on myself,
rotting and broken and beautiful. 

Mama wouldn’t recognize me, not at first. Not with the light outside 
and the sizzle of the hot summer sun bringing me back to space. 
I pray to the next phase, impossible and new, 
and the blood brings that promise.

Carly Chandler (she/they) is an experimental queer author from Louisiana. They have previously been published in Argus and Demonic Verses. She enjoys writing horror, poetry, and horrific poetry. They are an MA student at Northwestern State University, where they received their BA in English and Creative Writing.