Bond, by Anna Meister

Like fireflies, our faces
glow from the TV light
that night in June. We shoot Jack
until the burn dies,
bottle left with nothing
to claim.

& later the violence,
from stomach to throat
& out. Silk lining
ripped from a favorite jacket.
Sick draped on the bowl's lip.
I would hold back your hair
if you had some.

We share the toilet
like anything, toy
or dog, just as we've been
taught. Collapsed
puppets propped up
against the tub. Repeat
this last name of ours
like some reason to be


Anna Meister is an MFA candidate in Poetry at NYU. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Sugar House Review, The Boiler, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, Driftwood Press, & elsewhere. Anna loves political thrillers, coconut curries, & the Midwest.