Saturday, January 1, 2022

Trypophobia: a cadralor by Lauren Scharhag

1. For my 8th birthday, I got a Nintendo.
I could always tell when it was on. Even from downstairs,
I could feel the low, electrical pulse of it 
buzzing in my teeth.

2. It's tornado season again. The wind chimes do more than dance. 
They judder and jangle in a frantic melody, more warning than the sirens: 
the world goes dark and the sky is green. Everything is about to upend. 
Seek the low, interior places.

3. I am the moist pink gum bed, 
raw jolt of exposed nerve endings, 
tongue probing the gap, 
charting absence.

4. The Wi-Fi spirits whisper, See? 
We've been telling you all along
that distance and time don't matter.
Soon you won't even need the machine.

5. I have always hated tunnels and burrows. Hate them, but I can’t look away either. 
I have to know what’s on the other side, yearning for gateways, an escape hatch. 
I pick up abandoned keys and pocket them. I want to melt through the honeycomb 
of interlocking universes, become one with the hole. 

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit:

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