by Kara Dorris

Once I beat a purple beanbag chair with a toy bat—
I wanted to destroy a memory. The empty

plastic surround-sounded the attic
like a jet hitting supersonic. A thousand bees

flew out & tiny teeth welted my body, unasked.
Bodies dropped. The chair shed its captivity,

reclaimed the shape of air. Gleamed morning-after
vacant. I wondered if we would ever fly free

air felt like a taser. I could pretend we were topaz
confetti marring the ground or stuffing

waiting to fill something else like phantoms
& reincarnation, Elvis sightings & Britney

Murphys lurking in bulimic teen girls. & still the bees.
A thousand wing-holes ooze Red Hots,

scrunchies, & promises, condoms, & action
figures, the earrings I lost when a boy was lost at sea

inside my body. But the memories pressurized, sank
deep in the skin where they had always been,

pressed tight against synthetic, water-
resistant pleather.

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Kara Dorris is the author of three poetry collections and five chapbooks. Her poetry has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Redivider, DIAGRAM, Wordgathering, Puerto del Sol, and swamp pink, among other literary journals, as well as the anthology Beauty is a Verb (2011). Recently, she edited the poetry anthology Writing the Self-Elegy: the Past is Not Disappearing Ink (SIU Press, 2023). She currently teaches writing at Illinois College. See karadorris.com.