mineral lit mag
  • Home
  • About/Submissions
  • Masthead
  • Featured Poets Series
    • 3 poems by Chris Prewitt
    • 3 poems by Taylor Byas
    • 3 Poems by David Hanlon
    • 3 poems by Bailey Grey
    • 2 Poems by Seán Griffin
  • Issues
    • Issue 1
    • Issue 1.5: Hozier-inspired
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 3: Recovery
    • Issue 3.5: Lana Del Rey
    • Special Summer Solstice Prose Issue
    • Issue 4.1
    • Issue 4.2
    • Still Standing
  • Home
  • About/Submissions
  • Masthead
  • Featured Poets Series
    • 3 poems by Chris Prewitt
    • 3 poems by Taylor Byas
    • 3 Poems by David Hanlon
    • 3 poems by Bailey Grey
    • 2 Poems by Seán Griffin
  • Issues
    • Issue 1
    • Issue 1.5: Hozier-inspired
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 3: Recovery
    • Issue 3.5: Lana Del Rey
    • Special Summer Solstice Prose Issue
    • Issue 4.1
    • Issue 4.2
    • Still Standing
​moonpie (a golden shovel)

did you grow up tired too      a socketless sleep       your pink eyes
pitted peaches       do you know you’re unwhole      missing spit       are
you tired of being        the kind of beautiful that half-lifes       is your mouth wide
enough to hold all these stars       can I feed them to you       do you like
how I speak in sticks of butter       how I cradle oranges       how I let you knead cherry
chunks off my cheek         how we smoosh together and make moonpies

to norman rockwell (a golden shovel)

there’s nothing but hope
anymore. all i can do is
sit in silk and lapdance for a
miracle, or a dangerous
god. some strange thing
to ravage my teeth. and for
what? i can’t sing any more. a
girl like me is only a woman
when everyone else like
you removes their shoes. me?
i wear heels, gator-sharp, to
scare off the storms i have
stalking me. listen--
there’s nothing bright now, but
we’ve lived like this before. i
remember a white kite flying. i have
to believe lightning will strike it.


​Back Home in America, I Think of You (A Golden Shovel)

With each bus stop, a wobbly kiss:
sliding sandpaper. You’d drip off me
like bean juice, opposite the day-old, hard
Asda breadbirths. That stubborn Putney fall: before
our backpacks smushed plane seats, after you
kissed me in front of the glowing Eiffel. How we’d go
to Camden town, swallow the city like a summertime
popsicle. How it melted. How I lap up the sadness.

Samantha Fain is an undergraduate student studying creative writing at Franklin College. Her work has appeared in Rattle Poets Respond,The Indianapolis Review, SWWIM, Utterance, and others. She tweets at @samcanliftacar.
Proudly powered by Weebly