originally published in the albatross zine, volume 3: crush, 2025
in which i explain the adhesive property of water
my fifth grade music teacher
once spent a whole class period
telling us about the time she was in
carousel—she sang some, too,
her half of “if i loved you”
and the other half sat in my
stomach, simmering.
she had red hair.
when one direction broke up,
my apathy evaporated
when a girl with chipped fingernail polish
needed comforting.
she smelled like bath & body works
and my throat became a capillary tube,
something crawling up it
I never gave a name to.
the boy with long hair
asked me out at a pool party,
chlorine dripping
down his temple.
i laughed the way a gambler might,
dealing in to bad stakes.
now i’m bent over,
drinking from the tap.
the water touches my lips
and then curves along my cheek.
i emerge from the bathroom,
back of my hand smearing
wet across my mouth.
you’re watching, smiling
like you hope
i never swallow,
like you hope I’ll feed you
like a bird.
johanna e. hall 