Today, a miracle because no one vomits.
We eat grass like dogs, hunch on all fours
chase the white dragon until the gel in the lava lamp
resembles our bodies.

The dinosaur language he chants when he’s high
gives me tremors. Seismic waves crack my earth;
I cannot walk a straight line.

I swivel, grind my teeth,
lick Reynolds Wrap.

We sit on the patio, concentrate on bridged mountains:
their concrete necks, shelves that hold their rib cages.
The rock fragments, fingernails, jut from a sheet of skin.

My cheeks swell in the presence of his tongue.
I roll it around, remember how he tastes
in September, when his sinuses thicken
and the saliva in his mouth turns to syrup.

We cool down with water
that smells like last winter’s snow.
We scribble letters on the breezeway floor
with crayons, try to write our names.



"I have always been interested in writing about altered states of the mind and reality. I'm interested in the bizarre and love finding images to connect them to something concrete. Although I have no personal experience with this drug, I wanted to write about what two people would feel like who have used the drug, and I wanted to show how they try to carry on in the world and live in their altered state of reality as normally as possible. My influences include Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, Mark Strand, Kim Addonozio, and Dara Wier."

Sarah Grodzinski has an MFA from Chatham University. Her poems have been published in Nerve Cowboy, The Riding Light Review, and Sediments. Her first book of poetry, On Beacon Street will be published later this year by Cawing Crow Press. She teaches writing and coaches tennis at Lebanon Valley College in Annville, PA. When she is not writing she enjoys running, playing tennis, and going to Damien Rice concerts.