Micaela Foley

Hotel Art

Precipitation, a creature
chewing cubes of ice

sat over an open bowl
rallied against the avant-

plus-one pan-bullshit
against the lurid florals

of the human face
stalling an inhabitable biodome

from impending decimation
that, now that was activism

which asked one to melt oneself
into a series of numbers, angles

into over-proof booze tinctured
at correct volatility & w/ mineral salt

there was a gossamer net of fish line
at the very top of a field of visions

there was an expansive, elitist city
underneath the Denver airport

I tried to swallow the sound of the
plastic bag disrupting an elegiac poem

a la the mycelial network
we circulated

I had a list of names of sex partners
tallied up to verse the impregnable void

a thrush of life forms otherwise writhing
the bullet didn’t come back down

instead extra-cellular matrix water
clung to the ceiling– when the ego died

it all non-sensical– vibing till indistinguishable
the dim room any room

the painting any sun scene
hung low over an inlet

minutia like cat-o-nine tails &
bay grass loomed in the foreground

gulls small in the distance
brush strokes soft at the sky, sea

At Spring Thing

Drunk on organic rosé
at the Episcopal church
a small circle of adults
lay on the floor chanting
in rounds like a gong
an ambiguous child
with a jagged haircut
stood in the middle turning
& bending sometimes
to slap their thighs

I tried not to look at
the woman sat next to me
the severity of her name
too beautiful to slip into
a poem or even say though
at introduction
I acquiesced pinkly–
O the interstices of her face
ornate as a mandala or lure
& all the healed persons
of the world– merry widows
pressed against a glass door

Micaela Foley

Micaela Foley is an herbalist and freelance writer living in Brooklyn. She is the author of several chapbooks including Eight and Fevers tartar. Her poems have appeared in harlequin creature, MUSH/MUM, and Moonsick Magazine.