Samantha Fletcher


The way you speak is often the opposite of Spring.
I can’t make out your words anyway as I surface
from the depths, through the bubbles.
My ears aren’t working,
but I can sure taste it all.
I won’t ever stop trying to decipher what you meant
to say, that holiday in Tulum.
Maybe I should start speaking, but my words
sound like bleating.
The way your hands twitch
from your wrists silence
even my intuition.
The sharp pulling of your breath, your eye wrinkles;
I want to pluck the fur from your pets.
I find myself rising with the cascade of bubbles.
Remember this the next time
you go cavern diving –
the black daylight of it.
You can definitely
be the black daylight.



The opening scene of Antichrist
where what’s meant to be Dafoe’s cock
is displayed so prominently in thick
black and white glory
the smell that comes from static
which can only be experienced through
shallow breaths through the nostrils
lips slightly parted
the combination of one ceiling fan plus
one floor fan to produce the perfect brand
of white noise – and the way a cracked
window can most definitely turn it
the memory of pulling gum from the bottom
of a mini pink and white saddle shoe
 that blooms from the legs of an Argentinean
grape pulling down the insides of a hand-blown
and what this kind of observation means
for who you are becoming
the way you keep saying grownup
the meaning of buying flowers
for yourself or
your apartment or
the way sex was never fun until
very very recently
the city unseen
the dirt of it
the way you call your mom
that way nothing’s actually changed
at all


Sleeping Beauty, or maybe what is called depression

Like the baby Briar Rose, I have been cursed.
Cursed to sleep and to dream, to traverse the scape of my minds
To explore and build.
This is a real problem, people tell me,
this love affair with my mattress, this drowsy
It isn't just the mattress though, that holds my heart –
it’s the angle of my bed adjacent to the corner, and the cream
of the paint in the room that reflects bird calls from perpendicular
windows, thrown wide.
Oh, how those calls clash so lovely above my drowning head
with slices of lemon light through barely opened blinds.
I love to snuggle into the cove
between sleeping and awake; it’s quite small, but
the shallower my breathing gets
the easier it is to fit.
If I lay still enough, I can almost forget
my body, becoming just a mind.
Free to fly, and to forget.



All poems by Samantha Fletcher